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Book '^83 



GPO 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Singer 1 

Lyric Poems: 

My Hermitage 3 

An Invitation . 4 

A Song . 4 

. The Deserted Road 5 

A Butterfly in the City 5 

The Way-side Spring 5 

A-Maying 6 

The Summer Shower 7 

Inez 8 

Sunlight on the Threshold 8 

Midnight . 9 - 

The Light of our Home 10 

The Two Doves 11 

Solemn Voices . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 

Some Things Love Me 12 

To Wordsworth 12 

Passing the Icebergs 12 

Christine 13 

The Fairer Land 16 

Arise 17 

The Maid of Linden Lane 17 

The Swiss Street-Singer ' . . .19 

A Leaf from the Past 19 

Rosalie 20 

-The Stranger on the Sill 22 

Endymion . . . . .22 

Hazel Dell 23 

A Glimpse of Love . .......... 23 

Lines to a Blind Girl . . 24 

Once more into the Open Air 24 

Love's Gallery ... . 24 

The Miners 26 

The Winnower . . 26 

Fragments from the Realm of Dreams 27 

" Come, Gent'e Trembler" 29 

The Frozen Goblet 30 

The City of the Heart 31 

The Be^ar of Naples 32 

The Brickmaker 35 

Song for a Sabbath Morning 37 

The Nameless 37 

Indian Summer 37 

A Morning, but no Sun 38 

To the Master Bards 38 

"Oh, wherefore sigh ?" 38 

The Way 38 

The Great are falling from us 39 

iii 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Departure 39 

A Psalm for the Sorrowing 40 

Night 40 

Winter ............. 40 

The Bards 41 

The Distant Mart 41 

The Twins 42 

Lines written in Florence 42 

A Night at the Black Sign 43 

A Deserted Farm 44 

Lines to a Bird 44 

The Sculptor's Last Hour 45 

The Sculptor's Funeral 47 

Doomed and Forgotten 48 

Song of the Alpine Guide 50 

Morning in Martigny 50 

A Maiden's Tears 51 

Woman 51 

The City of God 51 

The Truant 52 

Ruth 53 

The Marseillaise 53 

The Old Year 54 

A Night Thought .54 

Song of the Serf. 55 

Balboa 55 

Labor 56 

The Windy Night 57 

A Dirge for a Dead Bird 57 

, The Withering Leaves .......... 57 

r^The Closing Scene 58 

The Pilgrim to the Land of Song . . . . . . . .59 

A Cup of Wine to the Old Year 61 

The Awakening Year 61 

Prologue to an unpublished Serio-Comic Poem 62 

Venice 63 

Nightfall 64 

L'Envoi 65 

Sylvia; or, The Last Shepherd: 

Prelude — The Merry Mowers . . . 65 

The Eclogue 66 

Conclusion — The Mournful Mowers il 



Airs from Alpland : 
The Listeners 
The Fair Pilgrim 
Song on St. Bernard . 
I have looked on a Face 
The Chnmois-Hunter . 
Song of the Chamois-Hunter 
The Warning 
Storm on St. Bernard . 
Fancies in the Firelight, in the Convent of St. Bernard 
>rifting • 



72 
73 
73 
74 
74 
75 
75 
76 
77 



The New Pastoral: 
Introduction 
Prelude 
The New Pastoral 



79 
81 

81 



CONTENTS. 



Poems in Italy : 

Brushwood . 181 

To H. W. L 183 

The Art Pilgrim 183 

The Campagna 186 

Rome Entered 187 

The Scalinnatti 188 

The Old Studio 189 

A Vision in Italy 189 

Monte Testaccio 192 

The Appian Way 193 

The House by the Sea: 

Part First 196 

Part Second .214 

War Poems : 

Sheridan's Ride 227 

Three Eras- — 

The Treaty Elm . .228 

The Alliance 229 

The Piece of Halliard from the Flag of the Cumberland . . .231 

The Attack 231 

The Apostrophe 232 

The Defenders 233 

- The Oath 233 

The Eagle and the Vulture 234 

The Flag of the Constellation 235 

The Roll of Honor 236 

The Wagoner of the Alleghanies: 

Part I. 

Berkley's Bride . . . 240 

The W'ild Wagoner 242 

The Heiress 246 

The Welcome 249 

The Unwelcome 253 

The Rising 256 

The Wreath 259 

Part II. 

The Young Patriot 262 

Rust on the Sword 265 

A Burial 268 

The Fight at the Ford 271 

The Battle in the Cloud 274 

Headquarters 277 

The Winter Camp 280 

The Heralds 282 

Part III. 

The Tankard of Wine 285 

The Meschianza 287 

The Banquet 291 

The Brothers 294 

Conclusion 300 

A Summer Story : 

Dedication.— To H. D. R 304 

A Summer Story 304 

Miscellaneous : 

The Blessed Dead 315 

The Phantom Leaders 316 

1* 



vi CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A Birthday Thought in Italy 317 

The Stayed Curse 317 

Twenty-One 318 

Beatrice 319 

Hero and Leander 319 

Winter 320 

The Blighted Flower 320 

The Death of the Veteran 321 

Evening in Winter 323 

A Plea for the Homeless 323 

The Celestial Army 324 

Church's "Heart of the Andes" 324 

The Reaper's Dream 325 

Down to the Dust 327 

The Western Vine 328 

Burns's Birthday 329 

To Bryant 331 

To Hyperion 332 

Dawn 332 

ToR.H '. .333 

Our Soldiers' Families 334 

Epithalainium 336 

The Cable 336 

What a Word may do 336 

To Lucy 337 

The Fool's Arrow . 337 

Epitaph 337 

Heart and Hearth 337 

The Golden Now 338 

My Lily 339 

The Sleep of Death 339 

A Christmas Hymn 340 

Notes 341 



LIST OF ILLUSTBATIONS. 




SUBJECT. 


artist. 


ENGRAVER. 


PAGE 


Portrait of T. Buchanan Read 


H. L. Brown. 


G. T. Andrew. 


(Front.) * 
14 \t 


Christine 


F. Dielman. 


C. H. Reed. 


" While a voice in gentlest whisper, breathed my 








name into my ear, 








' Ah ! Andrea, why this silence, why this shadow 








and this tear V " 








Christine 


F. Dielman. 


0. H. Reed. 


15 


" There for days I walked the chamber with a spirit 








all inflamed, 








And I thought on all the subjects which the gen- 








erous Duke had named." 








Sylvia; or, The Last Shepherd 


J. F. Murphy. 


G. T. Andrew. 


67 " 


" And the toiling day is done." 








Drifting ....... 


F. Dielman. 


John Dalziel. 


78 1' 


" Over the rail my hand I trail, 








Within the shadow of the sail." 








Drifting 


F. Dielman. 


H. M. Snyder. 


79 


" With dreamful eyes my spirit lies 








Under the walls of Paradise !" 








The New Pastoral . . 


J. E. Kelly. 


J. W. Evans. 


94 


" Call me witch, 








Or what you will ; but only this remember, 








When evil'l predict, beware — beware !" 








Brushwood . 


F. Dielman. 


John Dalziel. 


181 


" There came the maid in her glowing dress, 








The wild-eyed witch of the wilderness !" 






1S1 


n Brushwood 


F. Dielman. 


J. P. Davis. 


" There climbed the laborers from their toil, 








Brown as their ow n Italian soil." 




• 








vii 



viii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

SUBJECT. ARTIST. ENGRAVER. PAGE 

The House by the Sea . . . . J.F. Murphy. G. T. Andrew. 214 ' 
" They are gone, all the blooms by the wild April 

strown in the pathway of May ; 
For the passionate breath of the Summer has blown 

their leaves to decay." 

/ 
Sheridan's Ride J. E. Kelly. J. W. Evans. 228 

" Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas." 

The Wagoner of the Alleghanies . . Harry Fenn. H. M. Snyder. 243 I 
" On many a dangerous mountain-track, 
While oft the tempest burst its wrack." 

Is 

The Wagoner of the Alleghanies . . Harry Fenn. G. T. Andrew. 246 

" And with the morning, up the tide, 
Through golden vapor dim descried, 
A distant ship was seen to ride 
Vague as a vessel in a dream." 



u 



PREFATORY MEMOIR. 



Thomas Buchanan Read was born on the 12th of March, 
1822, in a small farm-house near that part of Chester County, 
Pennsylvania, which is known as " the Great Valley," and 
u within the shadow of the blue hills of Uwehlan." The rural 
scenes amid which his childhood was passed left ineffaceable im- 
pressions on his mind, and may be said to have been the main 
sources of his poetical inspiration. This is the more remarkable 
because his life was in a great measure that of a wanderer, and 
many years of it were spent in a country whose pre-eminence in 
natural beauty, artistic wealth, and picturesque associations kindles 
the imagination of all who are sensible to such influences. But 
though Read had as strong a feeling as other men for the charms 
of Italy, though he declared that Rome w r as " the only city in the 
world for an artist or poet," though some of his best poems deal 
with Italian subjects and show the hold which the fascinations of 
the scenery and the climate as well as of the relics of past ages 
had upon his mind, he never lost his deeper love for his native 
land and early home, to these his "heart, untravelled," always 
turned, and in the poem which he considered his best he com- 
memorates the simple life with which he was first familiar, 
and declares with unmistakable sincerity that " no lovelier land- 
scape meets the traveller's eye" than the midland vales of Penn- 

ix 



x PREFATORY MEMOIR. 

sylvania, and that neither the Rhine, the Danube, the Po, nor 
the Seine 

" Is half so fair as thy broad stream, whose breast 
Is gemmed with many isles, and whose proud name 
Shall yet become among the names of rivers 
A synonyme of beauty— Susquehanna I" 

His wanderings began at the age of fifteen, when, by the death 
of his father, the household was broken up and the boy was 
thrown on his own resources. He drifted from one place and one 
occupation to another, till in 1839 we find him fixing himself in 
Cincinnati with a well-defined purpose of becoming an artist. 
That he had not mistaken his vocation was speedily proved by 
the notice he attracted. Nicholas Longworth, a warm-hearted 
man with a penchant for discovering and patronizing youthful 
talent, enabled him to set up a studio, and among the portraits 
he painted was one of General Harrison, the Whig candidate for 
the Presidency. In 1841 he removed to Boston, with the view 
no doubt of obtaining better opportunities for study and improve- 
ment. Here, accordingly, besides other advantages, he received 
counsel and encouragement from Washington Allston during the 
last two years of that great artist's career. His acquaintance 
with Longfellow, which ripened into a strong and life-long friend- 
ship, may have had something to do with the new bent which his 
mind now began to take. His first published verses appeared in 
the Boston Courier, and henceforth his allegiance was divided 
between the sister arts, poetry being cultivated by him quite as 
assiduously as painting. 

It does not seem to have been any lack of success in his pro- 
fession that induced Read to leave Boston in 1846 and establish 
himself in Philadelphia. Here he had soon a wide circle of 
friends and many sitters, while his pen was as active as his brush 
and did more to extend his reputation. A volume of his poems 
was published in Boston in 1847, and another in the following 
year in Philadelphia. A collection which included some later 
productions appeared in London in 1852, and was very favorably 



PREFATORY MEMOIR. x i 

noticed by the press. An article in the " North British Review/' 
written by Coventry Pat more, pronounced Read " the most prom- 
ising of the living transatlantic poets/' and cited " The Closing 
Scene" as " unquestionably the best American poem we have/' 
and " an addition to the permanent stock of poetry in the Eng- 
lish language," comparing it to Gray's " Elegy," and preferring it 
in some passages, while pointing out the faults that mar its beauty 
and weaken the general effect. 

Two years before his poems met with this reception in England, 
Read had himself crossed the Atlantic. He spent some months 
in London, where, as in all places and on all occasions, he was 
warmly welcomed, and made the acquaintance of many persons 
distinguished in literature and art, while his age and aspirations 
brought him into closer companionship with some whose feet, like 
his own, were on the first rounds of the ladder. Among these 
were the Pre-Raphaelites and their literary associates; and the 
writer, who happened to be in London just after Read's de- 
parture, remembers the enthusiasm with which he was spoken 
of in this set, and the account of a farewell entertainment at 
which libations were poured to the old Greek gods, — not a very 
appropriate leave-taking for one who retained through life the 
strong and simple faith imbibed in childhood, when, as he tells 
us, his thoughts 

" Were full of scriptural lore, oft heard at morn, 
And in the evening heard, until the place 
Became a Palestine, while o'er the hills 
The blue horizon compassed all the world." 

But, though his creed had remained unchanged, the horizon of 
his fancy had widened, and not Palestine, but Italy was now the 
subject of his dreams and his place of destination. He stayed 
there about two years, painting pictures for which he had received 
commissions from his Philadelphian patrons, and writing poems 
suggested by his new experiences, which were comprised with 
others in a volume published in 1853. In that year he was at 
home again, having his studio in Philadelphia and residing at 



xii PREFATORY MEMOIR. 

Bordentown, New Jersey. He had married in Boston, and had 
now two children. His home was a happy one, his life tranquil 
and industrious ; he was near his oldest and best friends, his daily 
trips to and from the city were beneficial to his health, he had 
plenty of sitters for his portraits, and his evenings were occupied 
with the composition of his most ambitious poem, — "The New 
Pastoral." Mr. John R. Tait, from whose very agreeable and 
interesting " Reminiscences of a Poet-Painter" 1 these particulars 
are borrowed, visited Read at Bordentown and thus describes his 
home: " The house lie lived in had been in Revolutionary times 
occupied by Washington as his headquarters, and was not far from 
the grounds of the Bonaparte mansion. ... It was, with its as- 
sociations, its gardens, the old elms shading the windows, and 
the old tiles in the chimney, an ideal home for a poet. Mrs. 
Read received me with bright hospitality. She was pretty and 
petite, with a sweet maternal expression in her eyes, and quiet 
Puritan manners. The two children were lovely as cherubs in 
the Madonna San Sisto." 

Here, one would say, was a paradise from which its occupants 
would have been loath to be driven. But few men fix or change 
their place of abode from free and deliberate choice. Circum- 
stances govern the great majority, while some are controlled by 
mere inertia, and others impelled by the opposite habit and con- 
stitution of mind. Read was not a discontented man, but he was 
a restless one, — the result of temperament and in part, no doubt, 
of his early unsettled life. He had strong local attachments, but 
they were divided between remote places. Just as he found an 
equal charm in painting and poetry and gave his heart to each in 
turn, so Italy and America were two magnets that drew him 
alternately, the force of the attraction, in contradiction to the 

1 Lippincott's Magazine, March, 1877. — Other facts mentioned in this 
sketch have been derived from an account of Read, by Mr. Henry C. Town- 
send, in the " History of Chester County," an article by Mrs. C. H. B. Laing, 
in " Our Monthly," August, 1872, and one by Mr. Charles J. Peterson, in 
"Graham's Magazine," in which periodical many of Read's poems were 
originally published. 



PREFATORY MEMOIR. x iii 

physical law, being greater in proportion to the distance from 
which it acted. At Bordentown his brain was haunted by visions 
of Florence, and, yielding with characteristic promptness to the 
impulse of his fancy, he broke up his newly-formed establishment 
and went with his family to the fair Tuscan city, declaring his 
intention to reside there permanently. To all appearance this 
decision was justified by the life thus opened to him, which com- 
bined almost everything that could gratify a refined taste and 
stimulate the imagination. In its palmiest days Florence could 
scarcely have presented a more picturesque aspect, a more varied 
and festive succession of scenes, a richer assemblage of attractions 
for the senses and the intellect, than it did at this period. Besides 
its unrivalled combination of natural beauty with the glories of 
art and the monuments of former grandeur, rendered more im- 
pressive by grass-grown squares and other evidences of decay, its 
social life seemed to have blossomed afresh and to exhibit in a 
modern guise the activity and charm, without the turmoil and 
catastrophes, of mediaeval existence. The court of the Grand 
Duke Leopold was as open to strangers, as little encumbered by 
etiquette, and as much devoted to amusement, as that of old King 
Rene or any prince of burlesque. " The people were supposed to 
be longing and plotting for freedom from a foreign yoke, yet a 
lighter-hearted, gayer folk never laughed and loved, sang and 
conspired, outside of the opera bouffe." The streets were brilliant 
with the uniforms of the Austrian soldiery and the ducal guard, 
the market-places were enlivened by the costumes of the contadini, 
the cafes were crowded with officers, artists, and tourists, the music 
of a fine military band drew all the world in the afternoon to the 
park, Ristori played regularly at one of the theatres, and Verdi 
occasionally conducted the performances at the opera. Above 
all, the place was the home or the favorite resort of celebrities 
from all quarters and of every description. The Brownings, 
" Owen Meredith," Charles Lever, Rossini, George Sand, Mrs. 
Trollope, the Countess Guiccioli, Madame de Solms (more famous 
by her subsequent name of Rattazzi), were among the figures in 
this striking and almost motley throng. There was an American 

2 

T 



xiv PREFATORY MEMOIR. 

circle, comprising Powers, Hart, Tail, and other artists, a few- 
literary men, and some " unfledged prime donne," among them 
Adelaide Phillips and Clara Louisa Kellogg. 1 

Eead himself was, of course, one of the chief members of this 
group. He had his studio in an old convent, and it at once be- 
came "a resort of all the travelling Americans as well as of most 
of the English-speaking Florentine colony." Powers was his 
opposite neighbor, Browning a frequent visitor. Finely gifted, 
vivacious and sparkling in conversation, with " an inexpressibly 
winning and graceful manner" and a nature both warm and 
sweet, Read was not only thoroughly companionable and a general 
favorite, but too sympathetic and responsive not to be the object 
of strong attachments. " He rarely, indeed," says Mr. Tait, 
"met either man or woman without making a friend, or at 
least an admirer." Even Pow r ers, who was ordinarily considered 
"cold" and "hard," showed a real affection for him. The at- 
tachments thus quickly formed were cemented by a fidelity that 
had its roots in the depths of his nature and in an ideal of 
friendship which is characteristically expressed in one of his 
letters : 

"As I write that word friend, it seems to strike upon my heart as on a 
golden bell, setting it into interminable vibrations. There are few words 
so beautiful, so comprehensive. It includes devotion, self-sacrifice, defence 
against all things, including calumny and misfortune ; but, best of all, joy 
in another's joy, and exultation in his prosperity, this being in my mind the 
highest proof of friendship. It is easy to sympathize with misfortune, — the 
heart full of envy and malice might even do that, — but devoid of these must 
that beautiful soul be that can look upon a friend's success with gladness, 
having no other interest than that of pure enjoyment of his happiness. 
"When I look abroad over the world, I feel humbled, — humbled before that 
high Benefactor, — when I see how, all unworthy as I am, with what a host of 
just such devoted and disinterested friends as yourself I am blessed. I Lave 
never yet lost a friend. Some fancied ones may have dropped from me." - 



1 Mr. Tait, whose close intimacy with Read dates from their meeting at 
Florence, is the chief authority for this description, as well as for the greater 
part of what follows. 

2 Mr. Townsend's article, " History of Chester County." 



PREFATORY MEMOIR. xv 

Delightful as he found the society of Florence, its claims upon 
his time were not allowed to interrupt his work. Several of his 
best-known pictures, The Lost Pleiad, The Spirits of the Waterfall, 
and others, were painted at this period, some of them having been 
ordered by Mr. Claghorn and other friends at home, while the 
rest found ready purchasers among American tourists. Nor was 
the twin pursuit which was not less dear to him neglected. In 
the summer-time, when the artist world was dispersed on sketching 
tours, he shut himself up in his studio, absorbed in the composi- 
tion of " The New Pastoral, 7 ' and writing perhaps the more enthu- 
siastically that the scenes he Avas depicting were far distant and 
far different from those around him. The poem was finished in 
August, 1854. The following winter and spring were as full of 
pleasure and activity for Florence as any former season had been ; 
but in June a sudden and terrible invasion of cholera occurred, 
changing gayety to gloom, and animation to a stillness broken 
only by the march of the spectre of Pestilence with its dismal 
train. Among the earliest victims were Read's daughter Lilian 
and his wife. He himself, worn out in body and mind, half 
insane from sleeplessness and grief, fell into a complete nervous 
prostration, and was taken to the Baths of Lucca, where he re- 
mained through the summer. When the mountain-air, exercise, 
and watchful care had somewhat restored his health, he sought 
refuge from harrowing recollections in the composition of a new 
poem, " The House by the Sea." Without this resource he was 
sure, he said, that he "would have gone mad with melancholy. v 
The need of self-forgetfulness led him to choose a theme that 
had no connection with his personal feelings or experiences, and 
to write with extreme rapidity. The work, as he was conscious, 
gained in fire and freedom by this method of execution, and, when 
published, met with a greater success than its predecessor, on 
which he had expended far more time and labor. 

Late in the autumn he returned to America, and made his 
headquarters in Philadelphia while revising his poems for the 
press. He had much pleasant intercourse with his old friends in 
that city, and made visits to Longfellow, Willis, and others in 



xvi PRE r A TORY MEMOIR. 

New York and Boston. But he does not appear to have settled 
down to work, and his existence was a desultory one till new 
hopes arose and fouud their fulfilment in an event that restored 
the springs of ambition and had the happiest effect upon his life. 
He married, in 1856, Miss Harriet Denison Butler, of North- 
ampton, Mass., — " a lady," writes Mr. Tait, " whose culture and 
refinement were only equalled by her personal charms. The ideal 
of his artist-dreams in appearance, she realized and responded to 
all the wants of his intellectual nature, and from the day of their 
union her gentle influence was his noblest impulse." They sailed 
immediately for Europe, spending the summer in England — 
where Read painted many portraits, including heads of Tennyson 
and Leigh Hunt and a full-length of George Peabody — and the 
winter in Rome. In the autumn of 1858 he once more set up 
his studio in Philadelphia. The whole of this period was full 
of activity, and perhaps the most agreeable he had ever known. 
He painted indefatigably, went much into society, " was very 
happy and successful, and shared his prosperity with those who 
had less." His generous instincts were irrepressible, and showed 
themselves not only in a profuse hospitality to strangers as well 
as friends, and in a constant readiness to assist brother artists and 
poets less fortunate than himself, but in acts of charity which by 
their very eccentricity testify still more strongly to his goodness 
of heart. " He had always," for example, " some queer hanger- 
on who 'had attracted his pity, and whom he protected as some 
people pick up and protect useless dogs. Once in Cincinnati it 
was an Indian ; in Dusseldorf it was an Italian, useless when 
sober, and helpless when he had been drinking." 

After the publication, in 1857, of some rural poems, including 
" Sylvia, or the Lost Shepherd," Read's pen seems to have lain 
idle for a couple of years. It was taken up again under the 
promptings of an impulse which was certain to recur periodically 
after any long absence from loved and familiar scenes. 'One 
winter's evening, when prevented from returning home by a 
snow-storm, he raked up the coals in the grate of his studio and 
before morning had completed the first draft of one of the most 



PREFATORY MEMOIR. xvii 

beautiful of his lyrics,—" Drifting." l The feeling that suggested 
it is expressed in the opening lines : 

" My soul to-day is far away, 
Sailing the Yesuvian bay." 

But his fourth visit to Italy, in 1860, was cut short by events 
that stirred a deeper sentiment, one shared by millions but felt 
more intensely by none. Read's patriotism was of the old-fash- 
ioned type, sturdy in assertion, boundless in faith, and ready to 
boil over at any provocation on a foreign soil. " Very true," 
he said to Tennyson, in reply to the somewhat boastful remark 
that if England were to go by the board the world would swing 
back to despotism, — "Very true; we know that; and the United 
States will keep England from going by the board." But now it 
seemed as if the United States were about to "-go by the board." 
The first news of Secession reached Read at Rome, when the 
general dulness of the times had cast a gloom on his private 
outlook. But this was of small consequence in view of the ruin 
that threatened his country. " If the Union breaks," he wrote, 
" who cares then what breaks? If that is a failure, success is 
not worth having ; I shall \>e content to sit in dust and ashes the 
rest of my days. . . . But," he ended, with characteristic confi- 
dence, " it will not break !" 

He came back to America, where he wrote war-poems, besides 
completing and publishing " The Wagoner of the Alleghanies," — 
a patriotic work suggested by the present crisis though dealing 
with an earlier one, — selections from which had been delivered 
in manuscript to Mr. Murdoch, the distinguished actor and elo- 
cutionist, and recited with immense effect before large audiences. 
The poet himself gave public readings for the benefit of the 
soldiers, recited his war-songs at the head of battalions, and, 

1 This is the account given by Mr. Tait, who tells us that he himself slept 
on the sofa while Read wrote, and heard him read the poem in the morning. 
Mrs. Read, however, has stated in a published letter that " ' Drifting' was 
written one stormy Sunday in Brooklyn." Perhaps the poem was then 
rewritten. 

b 2* 



► 



xviii PREFATORY MEMOIR. 

entering the army as a volunteer, served for a time on the staff 
of General Lew Wallace. His patriotic lyrics served their end 
by fanning the popular enthusiasm. "Sheridan's Ride" may 
be said to have become famous. " The Oath" was a favorite 
with Mr. Lincoln, who called for it one evening when Mr. 
Murdoch was giving recitations in the Senate Chamber, and, 
on being told that the reader had not brought a copy of the 
poem, replied, " Oh, that is easily remedied : I have The Swear 
in my pocket." 

After the war Read resided for a time in Cincinnati. In 1867 
he returned to Europe, and spent the remainder of his life almost 
entirely at Rome. His last years were clouded by failing health 
and its incidental anxieties, but he labored more strenuously 
than ever, and his spirit lost little or nothing of its old bright- 
ness and buoyancy. His house was, as ever, open to all comers, 
and many still retain a grateful recollection of his hospitality 
and the impressions which his exhaustless vivacity, abundant 
wit, and constant charm of manner never failed to produce. 
Sometimes in the evening he read aloud to a circle of visitors 
the short poems which he still continued to write. One of 
these was "Brushwood," the sentiment and melody of which 
were alike fitted to gratify the ear and move the feelings 
of his listeners. But " Monte Testaccio" and " The Appian 
Way" 1 are marked by a deeper train of thought and a better- 
sustained tone than almost any of his other productions, and if 
the strain is less stirring or the harmony less luscious than in 
some, the diction and imagery are perhaps more nearly faultless. 
These and other short pieces indicate the height to which he 
might well have attained had he devoted himself exclusively to 
poetry. Mr. Tait, who criticises his pictures very frankly, is yet 
of opinion that with the requisite training and study he would 
have become "a great painter." Nature had been too generous 
to him, since the one half of her gift could be adequately cul- 



1 Both published in Lippincott's Magazine and included in the present 
collection. 



PREFATORY MEMOIR. xix 

tivated only with the surrender of the other. Read was not 
capable of the stern self-suppression necessary for such a sacrifice. 
He was of fancy a all compact," and lent himself unresistingly 
to every inspiration and every impulse. His frequent changes 
of residence, while they enriched his experience and widened his 
scope, could not but be adverse to that concentration of energies 
and continuous development in a single direction by which alone 
mastery in any line can be attained. His Lehrjalire were too 
short and his Wanderjahre too long. That under these condi- 
tions he should have done so well and, accomplished so much 
proves the exuberance of his natural endowments. Some of his 
pictures are exquisite in their way, some of his lyrics almost 
perfect. Among the latter, " Passing the Icebergs" was praised 
enthusiastically by Thackeray, and Landor wrote to a brother 
poet, " In Read's ( Midnight' America steals a march upon us." 
His rural poems are especially distinguished by the minute 
fidelity that comes from close observation of nature and reality. 
The characteristics of his paintings, on the other hand, are " in- 
tuitive grace and ideal beauty." There was, therefore, force as 
well as point in the remark of Hawthorne that "his pictures 
are poems — his poems pictures." 

His best works, whether of the pencil or the pen, were gen- 
erally those that were begun and completed at a spurt. When 
absorbed by a conception he was incapable of repose. He rose 
early and retired late, and would leave his bed in the middle 
of the night to give embodiment or expression to a vision or a 
thought. His writing-materials were usually held on his knee, 
like a painter's sketch-book. In his last years the activity of 
his mind rose to a fever. " He was at his easel with the earliest 
sunlight, and burned midnight oil over poetical and philosophic 
schemes." In spite of failing health, he remained at Rome, work- 
ing continuously, through the long and sickly winter of 1871-2. 
When at last overmastered by disease, he was seized once more 
with those yearnings for his native land which his period of vol- 
untary exile had never stifled, and which no banished patriot 
ever felt more strongly. He hoped at times to recover, but was 



xx PREFATORY MEMOIR. 

content to die if he might first reach the beloved shore. His 
wish was fulfilled. Attacked on the voyage by pneumonia, he 
survived a day or two after landing at New York, dying calmly 
on the evening of Saturday, May 11, in the arms of those who 
loved him best. " Your kisses are very sweet to me," were 
among his last words. 

Few natures have been more affectionate and true, few more 
lovable and more tenderly esteemed. A multitude of friends 
and admirers mourned his loss, — those most deeply who had 
known him best. Among the written tributes to his memory 
there is none that does not glow with the warmth and sincerity 
of a personal feeling. One, from the pen of Mr. Boker, may be 
especially referred to as the production of a kindred mind and 
worthy alike of the author and the subject. 1 

"Monody," in Lippincott's Magazine, November, 1872. 



THE SISGEE. 



A star into our twilight fell, 

'Mong peasant homes in vales re- 
mote ; 

Men marvelled not till all the dell 
Was waked as by a bugle-note. 

They wondered at the wild-eyed boy, 
And drank his song like draughts 
of wine ; 
And yet, amid their new-born joy, 
They bade him tend the herds and 
swine. 

But he knew neither swine nor 
herds, — 

His shepherd soul was otherwhere; 
The flocks he tended were the birds, 

And stars that HI i the folds of air. 

To sweeter song the wind would melt 
That fanned him with its perfumed 
wing; 
Flowers thronged his path as if they 
felt 
The warm and flashing feet of 
Spring. 

The brookletvflung its ringlets wide, 
And leapt to him, and kept his 
pace, — 
Sang when he sang, and when he 
sighed, 
Turned up to him its starry face. 

Through many a dawn and noon and 
night, 
The singing boy still kept his 
course ; 
For in his heart that meteor light 
Still burned with all its natal force. 

He sang, — nor cherished thought of 
care, — 
As when, upon the garden-vine, 
A bluebird thrills the April air, 
Regardless of the herds and swine. 
a 



The children in their May-time plays, 
The maidens in their rosy* hours, 

And matrons in their autumn days, 
All heard and flung him praise or 
flowers. 

And Age, to chimney-nooks beguiled, 
Caught the sweet music's tender 
closes, 

And, gazing on the embers, smiled 
As on a bed of summer roses. 

And many a heart, by hope forsook, 
Received his song through depths 
of pain, 

As the dry channels of a brook 
The freshness of a summer rain. 

But when he looked for house or 
bread, 
The stewards of earth's oil and wine 
Shook sternly the reproving head, 
And bade him tend the'herds and 
swine. 

He strayed into the harvest plains, 
And 'mid the sultry windrows sung, 

Till glowing girls and swarthy swains 
Caught music from his charmed 
tongue, — 

Caught music that from heart to brain 
Went thrilling with delicious meas- 
ure, 
Till toil, which late had seemed a 
pain, 
Became a sweet Arcadian pleasure. 

The farmer, at the day's decline, 
Sat listening till the eve was late ; 

Then, offering neither bread nor wine, 
Arose, and barred the outer gate, — 

And said, "Would you have where 
to sleep, 
On wholesome straw, good brother 



THE SINGER. 



You need but plough, and sow, and 
reap, 
And daily tend the herds and 



The poet's locks shook out reply ; 

He turned him gayly down the hill ; 
Yet left a light which shall not die, 

A sunshine on the farmer's sill. 

He strewed the vale with flowers of 
song ; 
He filled the homes with lighter 
grace, 
"Which" round those hearthstones lin- 
gered long, 
And still makes beautiful the place. 

The country, hamlet, and the town 
Grew wiser, better, for his songs; — 

The roaring city could not drown 
The voice that to the world belongs. 

To beds of pain, to rooms of death, 
The soft and solemn music stole, 

And soothed the dying with its breath, 
And passed into the mourner's soul. 

And yet what was the poet's meed ? 

Such, Bard of Alloway, was thine ! 
The soul that sings, the heart must 
bleed, 
Or tend the common herds and 
swine. 

The nation heard his patriot lays, 
And rung them, like an anthem, 
round, 
Till Freedom waved her branch of 
bays, 
Wherewith the world shall yet be 
crowned. 

His war-songs fired the battle-host, 
His mottoes on their banners 
burned ; 



And when the foe had fled the coast, 
Wild with his songs the troops re- 
turned. 

Then at the feast's triumphal board, 
His thrilling music cheered the 
wine ; — 

But when the singer asked reward, 
They pointed to the herds and 



"What! he a bard? Then bid him go 
And beg, — it is the poet's trade I 

Dan Homer was the first to show 
The rank for which the bards were 
made ! 

" A living bard ! What's he to us ? 

A bard, to live, must first be dead ! 
And when he dies, we may discuss 

To whom belongs the poet's head !" 

'Neath suns that burn, through storms 

that drench, 

He went, an outcast from his birth, 

Still singing, — for they could not 

quench 

The fire that was not born of earth. 

At last, behind cold prison-bars, 
By colder natures unforgiven, 

His frail dust starved ! but 'mid the 
stars 
Its spirit found its native heaven. 

Now, when a meteor-spark, forlorn, 
Descends upon its fiery wing, 

I sigh to think a soul is born, 

Perchance, to suffer and to sing : — 

Its own heart a consuming pyre 
Of flame, to brighten and refine : — 

A singer, in the starry choir, 

That will not tend the herds and 
swine. 



MY HERMITAGE. 



LYRIC POEMS. 



MY HERMITAGE. 

Within a wood, one summer's day, 
And in a hollow, ancient trunk, 

I shut me from the world away. 
To live as lives a hermit monk. 

31 y cell a ghostly sycamore, 

The roots and boughs were dead j 
with age ; 
Decay had carved the gothic door 

"Which looked into my hermitage. 

My library was large and full, 
Where, ever as a hermit plods, 

I read until my eyes were dull 

With tears; for all those tomes 
were God's. 

The vine that at my doorway swung 
Had verses writ on every leaf, 

The very songs the bright bees sung 
In honey-seeking visits brief — 

Not brief — though each stayed never 
long — 
So rapidly they came and went 
No pause was left in all their song, 
For while they borrowed still they 
lent. 

All day the woodland minstrels 
sang — 

Small feet were in the leaves astir — 
And often o'er my doorway rang 

The tap of a blue-winged visiter. 

Afar the stately river swayed, 

And poured itself in giant swells, 

While here the brooklet danced and 
played, 
And gayly rung its liquid bells. 

The springs gave me their crystal 
flood, 
And my contentment made it 
wine — 
And oft I found what kingly food 
Grew on the world-forgotten vine. 



The moss, or weed, or running flower. 

Too humble in their hope to climb, 
Had in themselves the lovely power 

To make me happier for the time. 

And when the starry night came by, 
And stooping looked into my cell, 

Then all between the earth and sky 
Was circled in a holier spell. 

A height, and depth, and breadth 
sublime 
O'erspread the scene, and reached 
the stars, 
Until Eternity and Time 

Seemed drowning their dividing 
bars. 

And voices which the day ne'er hears, 
And visions which the sun ne'er 
sees, 
Erom earth and from the distant 
spheres, 
Came on the moonlight and the 
breeze. 

Thus day and night my spirit grew 
In love with that which round me 
shone, 

Until my calm heart fully knew 
The joy it is to be alone. 

The time went by — till one fair dawn 
I saw against the eastern fires 

A visionary city drawn, 

With dusky lines of domes and 
spires. 

The wind in sad and fitful spells 
Blew o'er it from the gates of morn, 

Till I could clearly hear the bells 
That rung above a world forlorn. 

And well I listened to their voice. 

And deeply pondered what they 
said — 
Till I arose — there was no choice — 

I went while yet the east was red. 



4 LYRIC 


POEMS. 


My wakened heart for utterance 


And when the mill-wheel spiked with 


yearned — 


ice is dumb 


The clamorous wind had broke the 


Within the neighboring stream : 


spell — 




I needs must teach what I had learned 


Then come, for nights like these have 


"Within my simple woodland cell. 


power to wake 




The calm delight no others may 




impart, 


AN INVITATION. 


When round the fire true souls com- 




muning make 


INSCRIBED TO GEORGE HAMMERSLEY. 


A summer in the heart. 


Come thou, my friend ; — the cool au- 


And I will weave athwart the mystic 


tumnal eves 


gloom, 


About the hearth have drawn their 


With hand grown weird in strange 


magic rings ; 


romance, for thee, 


There, while his song of peace the 


Bright webs of fancy from the golden 


cricket weaves, 


loom 


The simmering hickory sings. 


Of charmed Poesy. 


The winds unkennelled round the 


And let no censure in thy looks be 


casements whine, 


shown, 


The sheltered hound makes answer 


That I, with hands adventurous 


in his dream, 


and bold, 


And in the hayloft, hark, the cock at 


Should grasp the enchanted shuttle 


nine, 


which was thrown 


Crows from the dusty beam. 


Through mightier warps of old. 


The leafless branches chafe the roof 




all night, 




And through the house the troubled 




noises go, 




"While, like a ghostly presence, thin 


A SONG. 


and white, 




The frost foretells the snow. 


Bring me the juice of the honey fruit, 




The large, translucent, amber-hued, 


The muffled owl within the swaying 


Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit 


elm 


The luxury that fills my mood. 


Thrills all the air with sadness as 




he swings, 


And bring me only such as grew 


Till sorrow seems to spread her shad- 


Where fairest maidens tend the 


ow} 7 realm 


bowers, 


About all outward things. 


And only fed by rain and dew 




Which first had bathed a bank of 


Come, then, my friend, and this shall 


flowers. 


seem no more — 




Come when October walks his red 


They must have hung on spicy trees 


domain, 


In airs of far enchanted vales, 


Or when November from his windy 


And all night heard the ecstasies 


floor 


Of noble-throated nightingales: 


"Winnows the hail and rain : 






So that the virtues which belong 


And when old Winter through his 


To flowers may therein tasted be, 


fingers numb 


And that which hath been thrilled 


Blows till his breathings on the 


with song 


windows gleam ; 


May give a thrill of song to me. 



THE WAYSIDE SPRING. 



For I would wake that string for thee 
Which hath too long in silence 
hung, 
And sweeter than all else should be 
The song which in thy praise is 
suns:. 



THE DESERTED ROAD. 

Ancient road, that wind'st deserted 
Through the level of the vale, 

Sweeping toward the crowded market 
Like a stream without a sail ; 

Standing by thee, I look backward, 
And, as in the light of dreams, 

See the years descend and vanish, 
Like thy tented wains and teams. 

Here I stroll along the village 
As in vouth's departed morn: 

But I miss the crowded coaches, 
And the driver's bugle-horn — 

Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters 
Filling buckets at the wells, 

"With their wains from Conestoga, 
And their orchestras of bells. 

To the mossy way-side tavern 
Comes the noisy throng no more, 

And the faded sign, complaining, 
Swings, unnoticed, at the door ; 

"While the old, decrepit tollman, 
W T aiting for the few who pass, 

Reads the melancholy story 
In the thickly springing grass. 

Ancient highway, thou art van- 
quished : 

The usurper of the vale 
Rolls in fiery, iron rattle, 

Exultations on the gale. 

Thou art vanquished and neglected ; 

But the good which thou hast done, 
Though by man it be forgotten, 

Shall be deathless as the sun. 

Though neglected, gray and grassy, 
Still I pray that my decline 

May be through as vernal valleys 
And as blest a calm as thine. 



A BUTTERFLY IN THE CITY. 

Dear transient spirit of the fields, 
Thou com'st without distrust, 

To fan the sunshine of our streets 
Among the noise and dust. 

Thou leadest in thy wavering flight 

My footsteps unaware. 
Until I seem to walk the vales 

And breathe thy native air. 

And thou hast fed upon the flowers, 
And drained their honeyed springs, 

Till every tender hue they wore 
Is blooming on thy wings. 

I bless the fresh and flowery light 
Thou bringest to the town, 

But tremble lest the hot turmoil 
Have power to weigh thee down ; 

For thou art like the poet's song, 

Arrayed in holiest d}-es, 
Though it hath drained the honeyed 
wells 

Of flowers of Paradise, 

Though it hath brought celestial hues 

To light the ways of life, 
The dust shall weigh its pinions down 

Amid the noisy strife. 

And yet, perchance, some kindred 
soul 

May see its glory shine, 
And feel its wings within his heart 

As bright as 1 do thine. 



THE WAY-SIDE SPRING. 

Fair dweller by the dusty way, 
Bright saint within a mossy shrine, 

The tribute of a heart to-day 
Weary and worn is thine ! 

The earliest blossoms of the year, 
The sweet-brier and the violet, 

The pious hand of Spring has here 
Upon thy altar set. 

And not alone to thee is given 

The homage of the pilgrim's knee — 

But oft the sweetest birds of heaven 
Glide down and sins to thee. 



6 LYRIC 


POEMS. 


Here daily from his beechen cell 


Now through the falling blossoms flies, 


The hermit squirrel steals to drink, 


And thrills the passing air with 


And flocks which cluster to their bell 


pleasure. 


Eecline along thy brink. 






Oh, would that I could thus take 


And here the wagoner blocks his 


flight, 


wheels, 


And be, like him, the earliest comer, 


To quaff the cool and generous 


That all should hear me with delight, 


boon ; 


And bless the song that promised 


Here from the sultry harvest-fields 


summer ! 


The reapers rest at noon. 




. 


Along the quiet, neighboring town, 


And oft the beggar masked with tan, 


The children chant their gladsome 


In rusty garments gray with dust, 


marches ; 


Here sits and dips his little can, 


Each with a woodland - gathered 


And breaks his scanty crust ; 


crown, — 




Some under flowery iris-arches. 


And, lulled beside thy whispering 




stream, 


Afar and near the music swells — 


Oft drops to slumber unawares, 


The breeze is glad to waft their 


And sees the angel of his dream 


singing, 


Upon celestial stairs. 


For never chime of fairy bells 




Filled poet's soul with sweeter 


Dear dweller by the dusty way, 


ringing. 


Thou saint within a mossy shrine, 




The tribute of a heart to-day 


See where they go ! — a very cloud 


Weary and worn is thine ! 


With rosy pleasure overladen ! 




Sure Flora hath to-day endowed 




With her own form each little 


A-MAYING. 


maiden. 


PART FIRST. 


A gladness thrills the waiting grove 


Now sitting under orchard limbs, 


While they go singing gay ly over ; — 


"When all the world has gone a- 


The very fields are waked to love, 


Maying, 


And nod them welcome with the 


Oh, how the fancy soars and skims, 


clover. 


With yonder fitful swallow playing I 






And every flower where stoops the 


Like snowy tents, the trees in bloom 


breeze 


Stand courting every bee that's 


With just enough of force to stir it, 


winging; 
And in the depths of their perfume 


Kings out its little chime of bees, 


In pleasure from its vernal turret. 


A whole community is singing. 






The springs release their fullest floods, 


The wind upon these murmuring 


From earth's o'erflowing heart, un- 


bowers, 


bidden. 


From out the fields of clover blow- 


The woodlands ope their latest buds, 


ing, 
Shakes down a storm of scented flow- 


There's not a leaf that may be 


hidden. 


ers, 
As if to fright me with its snowing. 


Yes, surely there's a love abroad, 




Through every nerve of nature 


The bluebird, which from Southern 


playing, — 


skies 


And all between the sky and sod, 


Takes yearly on his wings their 


All, all the world has gone a- May- 


azure, 


ing ! 



THE SUMMER SHOWER. 



SECOND PART. 

Oh, wherefore do I sit and give 
My fancy up to idle playing ? 

Too well 1 know the half who live — 
One-half the world is not a-May- 
ing. 

"Where are the dwellers of the lanes, 
The alleys of the stifled city ? 

"Where the waste forms whose sad re- 
mains 
Woo Death to come for very pity ? 

Where they who tend the "busy loom, 
With pallid cheek and torn apparel ? 

The buds they weave will never bloom, 
Their staring birds will never carol. 

It may be at the thought, their souls 
Are crushed to-day in their abase- 
ment, — 
Oh, better they should house with 
owls, 
"With poison vines about their case- 
ment ! 

And where the young of every size 
The factories draw from every by- 
way, 

Whose violets are each other's eyes, 
But dull as by a dusty highway ? — 

Whose cotton lilies only grow 

'Mid whirring wheels, on jarring 
spindles, 
Their roses in the hectic glow 

To tell how fast the small life 
dwindles ? 

Or she who plies the midnight thread 

The while her orphan ones are 

sleeping, 

And trembles lest, for want of bread, 

They start from troubled dreams to 

weeping ? 

Not all the floral wealth that sweeps 
The brow of May in splendor 
shining, 

Were worth to her the crust that keeps 
Her little ones to-day from pining. 

Where are the dusky miners ? they 
Who, even in the earth descending, 

Know well the night before their May 
Is one which has in life no ending ? 



To them 'tis still a joy, I ween, 
To know, while through the dark- 
ness going, 
That o'er their heads the smiling 
queen 
Stands with her countless garlands 
glowing. 

Oh, ye who toil in living tombs 
Of light or dark — no rest receiving, 

Far o'er your heads a May-time 
blooms — 
Oh, then be patient and believing. 

Be patient — when Earth's winter fails, 
The weary night which keeps ye 
staying- 
Then through the broad celestial vales 
Your spirits shall go out a-Maying ! 



THE SUMMER SHOWER. 

Before the stout harvesters falleth 

the grain, 
As when the strong storm-wind is 

reaping the plain ; 
And loiters the boy in the briery 

lane ; 
But yonder aslant comes the silvery 

rain, 
Like a long line of spears brightly 

burnished and tall. 

Adown the white highway, like 
cavalry fleet, 

It dashes the dust with its number- 
less feet. 

Like a murmurless school, in their 
leafy retreat, 

The wild birds sit listening the 
drops round them beat, 
And the boy crouches close to the 
blackberry wall. 

The swallows alone take the storm 

on their wing, 
And, taunting the tree-sheltered 

laborers, sing. 
Like pebbles the rain breaks the 

face of the spring, 
While a bubble darts up from each 

widening ring ; 
And the boy, in dismay, hears the 

loud shower fall. 



8 



LYRIC POEMS. 



But soon are the harvesters tossing 

the sheaves ; 
The robin darts out from its bower 

of leaves ; 
The wren peereth forth from the 

moss-covered eaves ; 
And the rain-spattered urchin now 

gladly perceives 
That the beautiful bow bendeth over 

them all. 

INEZ. 

Down" behind the hidden village, 

fringed around with hazel 

brake, 
(Like a holy hermit dreaming, half 

asleep and half awake, 
One who loveth the sweet quiet for 

the happy quiet's sake,) 
Dozing, murmuring in its visions, lay 

the heaven-enamored lake. 

And within a dell, where shadows 

through the brightest days 

abide, 
Like the silvery swimming gossamer 

by breezes scattered wide, 
Fell a shining skein of water that ran 

down the lakelet's side, 
As within the brain by beauty lulled, 

a pleasant thought may glide. 

When the sinking sun of August, 

growing large in the decline, 
Shot his arrows long and golden 

through the maple and the pine; 
And the russet-thrush fled singing 

from the alder to the vine, 
While the cat-bird in the hazel gave 

its melancholy whine ; 

And the little squirrel chattered, peer- 
ing round the hickory bole, 

And, a-sudden like a meteor, gleamed 
along the oriole ; — 

There I walked beside fair Inez, and 
her gentle beauty stole 

Like the scene athwart my senses, like 
the sunshine through my soul. 

And her fairy feet that pressed the 
leaves, a pleasant music made, 

And they dimpled the sweet beds of 
moss with blossoms thick in- 
laid : — 



There I told her old romances, and with 
love's sweet woe we played, 

Till fair Inez' eyes, like evening, held 
the dew beneath their shade. 

There I wove for her love-ballads, such 

as lover only weaves, 
Till she sighed and grieved, as only 

mild and loving maiden 

grieves ; 
And to hide her tears she stooped to 

glean the violets from the 

leaves, 
As of old sweet Euth went gleaning 

'mid the oriental sheaves. 

Down we walked beside the lakelet : — 

gazing deep into her eye, 
There I told her all my passion ! 

With a sudden blush and sigh, 
Turning half away with look askant, 

she only made reply, 
" How deep within the water glows 

the happy evening sky !" 

Then I asked her if she loved me, and 

our hands met each in each, 
And the dainty, sighing ripples 

seemed to listen up the reach ; 
While thus slowly with a hazel wand 

she wrote along the beach, 
"Love, like the sky, lies deepest ere 

the heart is stirred to speech." 

Thus I gained the love of Inez — thus 

I won her gentle hand ; 
And our paths now lie together, as 

our footprints on the strand ; 
We have vowed to love each other in 

the golden morning land, 
When our names from earth have 

vanished, like the writing from 

the sand ! 



SUNLIGHT ON THE THEESH- 
OLD. 

Dear Mary, I remember yet 

The day when first we rode together, 

Through groves where grew the violet, 
Eor it was in the Maying weather. 

And I remember how the woods 
Were filled with love's delightful 
chorus ; 



MIDNIGHT. 



How in the scented air the buds, 
Like our young hearts, were swell- 
ing o"er us. 

The little birds, in tuneful play, 
Along the fence before us fluttered ; 

The robin hopped across the way, 
Then turned to hear the words we 
uttered ! 

We stopped beside the willow-brook, 
That trickled through its bed of 
rushes ; 
While timidly the reins you took, 
I gathered blooms from brier 
bushes ; 

And one I placed, with fingers meek, 
Within your little airy bonnet ; 

But then I looked and saw your 
cheek — 
Another rose was blooming on it ! 

Some miles beyond the village lay. 
Where pleasures were in wait to 
wreathe us ; 

While swiftly flew the hours away, 
As swiftly flew the road beneath us. 

How gladly we beheld arise, 

Across the hill, the village steeple; 

Then met the urchins' wondering eyes, 
And gaze of window-peering people ! 

The dusty coach that brought the mail, 

Before the otfice-door was standing ; 

Beyond, the blacksmith, gray and 

hale, 

With burning tire the wheel was 

banding. 

We passed some fruit-trees — after 
these 

A bedded garden lying sunward ; 
Then saw, beneath three aged trees, 

The parsonage a little onward. 

A modest building, somewhat gray, 
Escaped from time, from storm, 
disaster •, 
The very threshold worn away 

With feet of those who'd sought 
the pastor. 

And standing on the threshold there, 
We saw a child of angel lightness ; 



Her soul-lit face — her form of air, 
Outshone the sunlight with her 

brightness ! 

As then she stood I see her now — 
In years perchance a half a dozen — 

And, Mary, you remember how 
IShe ran to you and called you 
" cousin" ? 

As then, I see her slender size, 

Her flowing locks upon her shoul- 
der — 
A six years' loss to Paradise, 

And" ne'er on earth the child grew 
older ! 

Three times the flowers have dropped 
away, 

Three winters glided gayly o'er us, 
Since here upon that morn in May 

The little maiden stood before us. 

These are the elms, and this the door, 
With trailing woodbine over- 
shaded ; 
But from the step, for evermore, 
The sunlight of that child has 
faded ! 



MIDNIGHT. 

The moon looks down on a world of 

snow, 
And the midnight lamp is burning 

low, 
And the fading embers mildly glow 

In their bed of ashes soft and deep ; 
All, all is still as the hour of death ; 
I only hear what the old clock saith, 
And the mother and infant's easy 

breath, 
That flows from the holy land of 

Sleep. 

Say on, old clock — I love you well, 
For your silver chime, and the truths 

you tell, 
Your every stroke is but the knell 
Of hope, or sorrow buried deep ; 
Say on — but only let me hear 
The sound most sweet to my listening 

ear, 
The child and the mother breathing 

clear 
Within the harvest-fields of Sleep. 



10 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Thou watchman, on thy lonely round, 
I thank thee for that warning sound ; 
The clarion cock and the baying 
hound 

Not less their dreary vigils keep.; 
Still hearkening, I will love you all, 
"While in each silent interval 
I hear those dear breasts rise and fall 

Upon the airy tide of Sleep. 

Old world, on time's benighted stream 
Sweep down till the stars of morning 

beam 
From orient shores — nor break the 
dream 

That calms my love to pleasure deep ; 
Roll on, and give my Bud and Rose 
The fulness of thy best repose, 
The blessedness which only flows 

Along the silent realms of Sleep. 



THE LIGHT OF OUR HOME. 

Oh, thou whose beauty on us beams 
With glimpses of celestial light ; 

Thou halo of our waking dreams, 
And early star that crown'st our 
night ; 

Thy light is magic where it falls ; 

To thee the deepest shadow yields; 
Thou bring'st unto these dreary halls 

The lustre of the summer fields. 

There is a freedom in thy looks 

To make the prisoned heart re- 
joice;— 

In thy blue eyes I see the brooks, 
And hear their music in thy voice. 

And every sweetest bird that sings' 
Hath poured a charm upon thy 
tongue ; 
And where the bee enamored clings, 
There surely thou in love hast 
clung: — 

For when I hear thy laughter free, 
And see thy morning-lighted hair, 

As in a dream at once I see 

Fair upland realms and valleys fair. 

I see thy feet empearled with dews, 
The violet's and the lily's loss ; 



And where the waving woodland 
wooes 
Thou lead'st me over beds of 
moss ; — 

And by the busy runnel's side, 

Whose waters, like a bird afraid, 
Dart from their fount, and, flashing, 
glide 
Athwart the sunshine and the 
shade. 

Or larger streams our steps beguile ; — 
We see the cascade, broad and 
fair, 
Dashed headlong down to foam, the 
while 
Its iris-spirit leaps to air ! 

Alas ! as by aloud alarm, 

The fancied turmoil of the falls 
Hath driven me back and broke the 
charm 
Which led me from these alien 
walls; — 

Yes, alien, dearest child, are these 
Close city walls to thee and me : 

My homestead was embowered with 
trees, 
And such thy heritage should be : — 

And shall be ; — I will make for thee 
A home within my native vale, 

Where every brook and ancient tree 
Shall whisper some long-treasured 
tale. 

Now once again I see thee stand, 
As down the future years I gaze, 

The fairest maiden of the land, 
The spirit of those sylvan ways. 

And in thy looks again I trace 

The light of her who gave thee 
birth ; 

She who endowed thy form and face 
With glory which is not of Earth. 

And as I gaze upon her now, 

My heart sends up a prayer for 
thee, 
That thou may est wear upon thy 
brow 
The light which now she beams on 
me. 



SOLEMN VOICES. 



11 



THE TWO DOYES. 

When the Spring"s delightful store 

Brought the bluebirds to our bowers, 
And the poplar at the door 

Shook the fragrance from its flowers, 
Then there came two wedded doves, 

And they built among the limbs, 
And the murmur of their loves 

Fell like mellow, distant hymns ; 
There, until the Spring had flown, 
Did they sit and sing alone, 
In the broad and flowery branches. 

With the scented Summer breeze 

How their music swam around, 
Till my spirit sailed the seas 

Of enchanted realms of sound ! 
11 Soul/' said I, " thy dream of youth 

Is not fancy, nor deceives, 
For I hear Love's blissful truth 

Prophesied among the leaves ; 
Therefore till the Summer's flown 
Sit and sing, but not alone, 
In the broad and flowery branches." 

Then the harvest came and went, 

And the Autumn marshalled down 
All his host, and spread his tent 

Over fields and forests brown ; 
Then the doves, one evening, hied 

To their old accustomed nest ; 
One w r ent up, but drooped and died, 

With an arrow in its breast — 
Died and dropped ; while there, alone, 
Sat the other, making moan, 
In the broad and withering branches. 

There it sat and mourned its mate, 
With a never-ending moan, 

Till I thought perchance its fate 
Was prophetic of my own : 

And at each lament I heard, 

How the tears sprang to my eyes ! 

! I could have clasped the bird, 
And communed with it in sighs ; 

But it drooped — and with a moan, 
Closed its eyes, and there, alone, 
Dropped from out the leafless branches. 

1 beheld it on the ground, 

Press the brown leaves, cold and 
dead, 
And my brain went round and round, 

And I clasped my throbbing head, 
While thus spake a voice of Love : 

" Kise, thou timid spirit, rise ! 



Earth has claimed the fallen dove — 

But thy soul shall cleave the skies ; 
While the angel, earlier flown, 
Shall sit waiting thee, alone, 
In the green eternal branches !" 

SOLEMN VOICES. 

I heard from out the dreary realms 
of Sorrow 
The various tongues of Woe: — 
One said, " Is there a hope in the 
to-morrow ?" 
And many answered, " No !" 

And they arose and mingled their 
loud voices, 
And cried in bitter breath, 
" In all our joys the Past alone re- 
joices, — 
There is no joy but Death. 

" Oh dreadful Past, beyond thy mid- 
night portal 
Thou hast usurped our peace ; 
And if the angel Memory be im- 
mortal, 
When shall this anguish cease?" 

And suddenly within the darkened 
distance 
The solemn Past replied, 
" In my domains your joys have no 
existence, 
Tour hopes they have not died ! 

"Nought comes to me except those 
ghosts detested, 
Phantoms of W^rong and Pain ; 
But whatsoe'er Affection hath in- 
vested, 
Th' eternal years retain. 

" Then stand no more with looks and 
souls dejected, 
To woo and win despair ; 
The joys ye mourn the Future hath 
collected, 
Tour hopes are gathered there. 

" And as the dew which leaves the 
morning flowers 
Augments the after rain, — 
And as the blooms which fall from 
summer bow r ers 
Are multiplied again, — 



12 



LYRIC POEMS. 



"So shall the joys the Future holds 
in keeping 
Augment your after peace ; 
So shall your hopes, which now are 
only sleeping, 
Return with large increase." 



SOME THINGS LOVE ME. 

All within and all without me . 

Feel a melancholy thrill ; 
And the darkness hangs about me, 

Oh, how still ! 
To my feet, the river glideth 

Through the shadow, sullen, dark ; 
On the stream the white moon rideth, 

Like a barque — 
And the linden leans above me, 

Till I think some things there be 
In this dreary world that love me, 

Even me ! 

Gentle buds are blooming near me, 

Shedding sweetest breath around ; 
Countless voices rise, to cheer me, 

From the ground ; 
And the lone bird comes — I hear it 

' In the tall and windy pine 
Pour the sadness of its spirit 

Into mine ; 
There it swings and sings above me, 

Till I think some things there be 
In this dreary world that love me, 

Even me ! 

Now the moon hath floated to me, 

On the stream I see it sway, 
Swinging, boat-like, as 'twould woo 
me 

Far away — 
And the stars bend from the azure, 

I could reach them where I lie, 
And they whisper all the pleasure 

Of the sky. 
There they hang and smile above me, 

Till I think some things there be 
In the very heavens that love me, 

Even me ! 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

Thy rise was as the morning, glo- 
rious, bright ! 

And error vanished like the affrighted 
dark ; — 



While many a soul, as the aspiring 
lark, 

Waked by thy dawn, soared singing 
to the light, 

Drowning in gladdest song the earth's 
despite ! 

And beauty blossomed in all lowly ' 
nooks — 

Love, like a river made of nameless 
brooks, 

Grew and exulted in thy wakening 
sight ! 

All nature hailed thee as a risen sun ; 

Nor will thy setting blur her thank- 
ful eyes ! 

While earth remains thy day shall 
not be done, 

Nor cloud dispread to blot thy match- 
less skies ! 

When Death's command, like Josh- 
ua's, shall arise, 

Thou 'It stand as stood the sun of 
Gibeon ! 



PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 

A fearless shape of brave device, 
Our vessel drives through mist and 
rain, 

Between the floating fleets of ice — 
The navies of the northern main. 

These arctic ventures, blindly hurled, 
The proofs of Nature's olden 
force, — 
Like fragments of a crystal world 
Long shattered from its skyey 
course, — 

These are the buccaneers that fright 
The middle sea with dream of 
wrecks, 
And freeze the south winds in their 
flight, 
And chain the Gulf-stream to their 
decks. 

At every dragon prow and helm 
There stands some Viking as of 
yore ; 

Grim heroes from the boreal realm 
Where Odin rules the spectral shore. 

And oft beneath the sun or moon 
Their swift and eager falchions 
glow — 




CHRISTINE. 



While a voice in gentlest whisper, breathed my name into my ear, 
'■Ah! Andrea, why this silence, why this shadow and this tear f " 



CHRISTINE. 13 


"While, like a storm-vexed wind, the 


He sits amid his frozen crew 


rune 


In council with the norland stars. 


Comes chafing through some heard 




of snow. 


No answer — but the sullen flow 




Of ocean heaving long and vast ; — 


And when the far north flashes up 


An argosy of ice and snow, 


With fires of mingled red and gold, 


The voiceless North swings proudly 


They know- that many a blazing cup 
Is brimming to the absent bold. 


past. 




Up signal there, and let us hail 


CHEISTINE. 


Yon looming phantom as we pass ! — 




Note all her fashion, hull, and sail, 


Supposed to be related by a young sculp- 


Within the compass of your glass. 


tor on the hill-side between Florence 




and Fiesole. 


See at her mast the steadfast glow 




Of that one star of Odin's throne ; 


Come, my friend, and in the silence 


Up with our flag, and let us show 


and the shadow wrapt apart, 


The constellation on our own. 


I will loose the golden claspings of 




this sacred tome — the heart. 


And speak her well; for she might 




sa y> 


By the bole of yonder cedar, under 


If from her heart the words could 


branches spread like eaves, 


thaw, 


We will sit where wavering sunshine 


Great news from some far frozen bay, 


weaves romance among the 


Or the remotest Esquimaux: 


leaves. 


Might tell of channels yet untold, 


There by gentle airs of story shall our 


That sweep the pole from sea to sea ; 


dreamy minds be swayed, 


Of lands which God designs to hold 


And our spirits hang vibrating like 


A mighty people yet to be : — 


the sunshine with the shade. 


Of wonders which alone prevail 


Thou shalt sit, and, leaning, o'er me, 


Where day and darkness dimly 


calmly look into my heart, 


meet ; — 


Look as Fiesole above us looketh on 


Of all which spreads the arctic sail ; 


Val d'Arno's mart : — 


Of Franklin and his venturous fleet : 






Shalt behold how Love's fair river 


How, haply, at some glorious goal 


down the golden city goes, 


His anchor holds — his sails are 


As the silent stream of Arno through 


furled ; 


the streets of Florence flows. 


That Fame has named him on her 




scroll, 


I was standing o'er the marble, in the 


" Columbus of the Polar World.' 7 


twilight falling gray, 




All my hopes and all my courage 


Or how his ploughing barques wedge 
on 
Through splintering fields, with 


waning from me like the day : 


There I leaned across the statue, heav- 


battered shares, 


ing many a sigh and groan, 


Lit only by that spectral dawn, 


For I deemed the world as heartless, 


The mask that mocking darkness 


ay, as heartless as the stone ! 


wears ; — 






Nay, I wellnigh thought the marble 


Or how, o'er embers black and few, 


was a portion of my pain, 


The last of shivered masts and 


For it seemed a frozen sorrow just 


spars, 


without my burning brain. 
2 



14 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Then a cold and death-like stupor 
slowly crept along my frame, 

"While my life seemed passing out- 
ward, like a pale reluctant 
flame. 

And my weary soul went from me, and 
it walked the world alone, 

O'er a wide and brazen desert, in a hot 
and brazen zone ; 

There it walked and trailed its pin- 
ions, slowly trailed them in the 
sands, 

With its hopeless eyes fixed blindly, 
with its hopeless folded hands. 

And there came no morn, — no evening 
with its gentle stars and moon, 

But the sun amid the heavens made a 
broad, unbroken noon. 

And anon far reaching westward, with 
its weight of burning air, 

Lay an old and desolate ocean with a 
dead and glassy stare. 

There my spirit wandered, gazing for 
the goal no time might reach, 

"With its weary feet unsandalled on 
the hard and heated beach. 

This it is to feel uncared for, like a 

useless wayside stone, 
This it is to walk in spirit through the 

desolate world alone ! 

Still I leaned across the marble, and 
a hand was on my arm, 

And my soul came back unto me as 
'twere summoned by a charm : 

While a voice in gentlest whisper, 
breathed my name into my ear, 

" Ah ! Andrea, why this silence, why 
this shadow and this tear?" 

Then I felt that 1 had wronged her, 
though I knew it not before ; 

I had feared that she would scorn me 
if I told the love I bore. 

I had seen her, spoken to her, only 
twice or thrice perchance ; 

And her mien was fine and stately, 
and all heaven was in her 
glance. 



She had praised my humble labors, 
the conception and the art, — 

She had said a thing of beauty 
nestled ever to her heart. 

And I thought one pleasant morning 
when our eyes together met, 

That her orbs in dewy splendor dropt 
beneath their fringe of jet. 

Though her form and air were noble, 
yet a simple dress she wore, 

Like yon maiden by the cypress, 
which the vines are weeping 
o'er. 

And she came all unattended, — her 
protection in her mien ; 

And with somewhat of reluctance 
bade me call her name Chris- 
tine. 

Then that name became a music, and 
my dreams went to the time, 

And my brain all day made verses, 
and her beauty filled the rhyme. 

Never dreamed I that she loved me, 
but I felt it now the more ; 

For her hand was laid upon me, and 
her eyes were brimming o'er. 

Oh, she looked into my spirit, as the 
stars look in the stream, 

Or as azure eyes of angels calm the 
trouble of a dream. 

Then I told my love unto her, and 
her sighs came deep and long — 

So yon peasant plays the measure, 
while the other leads the song. 

Then with tender words we parted, 
only as true lovers can ; 

I for that deep love she bore me was 
a braver, better man. 

I had lived unloved of any, only 

loving Art before ; 
Now I thought all things did love me, 

and I loved all things the more. 

I had lived accursed of Fortune, lived 
in penury worse than pain ; 

But, when all the heaven was black- 
est, down it showered in golden 
rain. 




CHRISTINE. 



" There for days I walked the chamber with a spirit all inflamed, 
And I thought on all the subjects tohich the generous Duke had named—" 



CHRISTINE. 



15 



I was summoned to the palace, to the | And my footsteps were elastic with 

presence of the Duke, 
Feeling hopes arise within me that no 

grandeur could rebuke. 



Down he kindly came to meet me, hut 
I thought the golden throne 

Upon which my love had raised me, 
was not lower than his own. 

Then he grasped my hand with 
fervor, and I gave as warm 
return, 

For I felt a noble nature in my very 
fingers burn. 

And I would not bow below him, if 
I could not rise above, 

For I felt within my bosom all the 
majesty of Love. 

"Sir," said he, "your fame has 
reached me, and I fain would 
test your skill — 

Carve me something, Signior ; follow 
the free fancy of your will. 

11 Carve me something — an Apollo, or 
a Dian with her hounds ; 

Or Adonis, dying, watching the 
young life flow from his 
wounds ; — 

" Or a dreamy-lidded Psyche, with 
her Cupid on her knee ; 

Or a flying fretted Daphne, taking 
refuge in the tree. 

"But I will not dictate, Signior; I 
can trust your taste and skill — 

In the ancient armored chamber 
you may carve me what you 
will." 

Then I thanked him as he left me— 
and I walked the armored 
hall- 
Even I, so late neglected, walked 
within the palace wall. 

There were many suits of armor, 

some with battered breasts and 

casques ; 
And I thought the ancestral phantoms 

smiled upon me from their 

masks. 



an energy divine ; 
Never in those breasts of iron beat a 
heart as proud as mine ! 

There for days I walked the chamber 
with a spirit all inflamed, 

And I thought on all the subjects 
which the generous Duke had 
named — 

Thought of those, and thought of 
others, slowly thought them 
o'er and o'er, 

Till my stormy brain went throbbing 
like the surf along the shore. 

In despair I left the palace, sought 
my humble room again, 

And my gentle Christine met me, and 
she smiled away my pain. 

" Courage !" said she, and my courage 
leapt witbin me as she spake, 

And my soul was sworn to trial and 
to triumph for her sake. 

Who shall say that love is idle, or a 
weight upon the mind ? 

Friend ! the soul that dares to scorn it, 
hath in idle dust reclined. 

I returned, and in the chamber piled 
the shapeless Adam-earth ; 

Piled it carelessly, not knowing to 
what form it might give birth. 

There I leaned, and dreamed, above it, 
till the day went down the west, 

And the darkness came unto me like 
an old familiar guest. 

But I started, for a rustle swept 
athwart the solemn gloom ! 

And with light, like morn's horizon, 
gleamed the far end of the room ! 

Then a heavy sea of curtain, in a 

tempest rolled away ! 
Blessed Virgin ! how I trembled ! but 

it was not with dismay. 

And my eyes grew large and larger, 
as I looked with lips apart ; 

And my senses drank in beauty, till 
it drowned my happy heart. 



16 



LYRIC POEMS. 



There it stood, a living statue I with 
its loosened locks of brown — 

In an attitude angelic, with the folded 
hands dropt down. 

But I could not see the features, for a 
veil was hanging the.re, 

Yet so thin, that o'er the forehead I 
could trace the shadowy hair. 

Then the veil became a trouble, and I 
wished that it were goiie, 

And I spake, 'twas but a whisper, 
" Let thy features on me 
dawn !" 

And the heavy sea of drapery stormed 
again across my sight, 

Leaving me appalled with wonder, 
breathless in the sudden night. 

But for days, where'er I turned me, 
still that blessed form was there, 

As one looketh to the sunlight, then 
beholds it everywhere. 

And for days and days I labored, with 
a soul in courage mailed ; 

And I wrought the nameless statue ; 
but, alas I the face was veiled. 

I had tried all forms of feature — every 

face of classic art — 
Still the veil was there — I felt it — in 

my brain, and in my heart ! 

Sorrowing, I left the palace, and again 

I met Christine, 
And she trembled as I told her of the 

vision I had seen. 

And she sighed, " Ah, dear Andrea," 
while she clung unto my breast, 

" What if this should prove a 
phantom, something fearful 
and unblest — 

" Something which shall pass between 
us?" and she clasped me with 
her arm ; 

"Nay," I answered, "love, I'll test 
it with, a most angelic charm. 

" Let me gaze upon thy features, love, 
and fear not for the rest ; 

They shall exorcise the spirit if it be 
a thing unblest 1" 



Then I hurried to the statue, where 

so often I had failed, 
And I made the face of Christine, and 

it stood no longer veiled 1 

With a flush upon my forehead, then 
I called the Duke — he came, 

And in rustling silks beside him 
walked his tall and stately 
dame ; 

And they looked upon the statue — 
then on me with stern sur- 
prise ; 

Then they looked upon each other 
with a wonder in their eyes ! 

" What is this ?" spake out the Duch- 
ess, with her gaze fixed on the 
Duke; 

" W T hat is this?" and me he ques- 
tioned in a tone of sharp re- 
buke. 

Like a miserable echo, I the question 

asked again — 
And he said, "It is our daughter! 

your presumption for your 

pain 1" 

But asudden from the curtain, in her 
jewelled dress complete, 

Swept a maiden in her beauty, and 
she dropped before his feet — 

And she cried, "0! father — mother, 
cast aside that frowning mien ; 

And forgive my own Andrea, and 
forgive your child Christine ! 

" O ! forgive us : for, believe me, all 
the fault was mine alone !" 

And they granted her petition, and 
they blessed us as their own. 



THE FAIKEK LAND. 

All the night, in broken slumber, 
1 went down the world of dreams, 

Through a land of war and turmoil 
Swept by loud and laboring streams, 

Where the masters wandered, chant- 
ing 
Ponderous and tumultuous themes. 



THE MAID OF LIXDEX LAXE. 



17 



Chanting from unwieldy volumes 
Iron maxims stern and stark, 

Truths that swept, and burst, and 
stumbled 
Through the ancient rifted dark ; 

Till my soul was tossed and worried, 
Like a tempest-driven barque. 

But anon, within the distance, 
Stood the village vanes aflame, 

And the sunshine, filled with music, 
To my oriel casement came ; 

While the birds sang pleasant valen- 
tines 
Against my window-frame. 

Then by sights and sounds invited, 
I went down to meet the morn, 

Saw the trailing mists roll inland 
Over rustling fields of corn, 

And from quiet hill-side hamlets 
Heard the distant rustic horn. 

There, through daisied dales and by- 
ways, 
Met I forms of fairer mould, 
Pouring songs for very pleasure — 
Songs their hearts could not with- 
hold— 
Setting all the birds a-singing 

With their delicate harps of gold. 

Some went plucking little lily-bells, 
That withered in the hand ; 

Some, where smiled a summer ocean, 
Gathered pebbles from the sand ; 

Some, with prophet eyes uplifted, 
"Walked unconscious of the land. 

Through that Fairer World I wan- 
dered 

Slowly, listening oft and long, 
And as one behind the reapers, 

Without any thought of wrong, 
Loitered, gleaning for my garner 

Flowery sheaves of sweetest song. 



AKISE. 
i. 



The demon-clouds throughout the sky 
Aredancing in their strange delight, 

While winds unwearied play ; — but I 
Am weary of the night. 

Then rise, sweet maiden mine, arise, 

And dawn upon me with thine eyes. 



II. 



The linden, like a lover, stands 

And taps against thy window- 
pane ; 
The willow with its slender hands 

Is harping on the silver rain. 
I've watched thy gleaming taper die, 

And hope departed with the light — 
The winds unwearied play ; — but I 

Am weary of the night. 
Then rise, sweet maiden mine, arise, 
And dawn upon me with thine eyes. 



The gentle morning comes apace, 

And smiling bids the night depart ; 
Kise, maiden, with thy orient face, 

And smile the shadow from my 
heart ! 
The clouds of night affrighted fly — 

Yet darkness seals my longing 
sight — 
All nature gladly sings — while I 

Am weary of the night. 
Then rise, sweet maiden mine, arise, 
And dawn upon me with thine eyes. 



THE MAID OF LIXDEX LAXE. 

Little maiden, you may laugh 
That you see me wear a staff, 
But your laughter is the chaff 

From the melancholy grain. 
Through the shadows long and cool 
You are tripping down to school ; 
But your teacher's cloudy rule 
Only dulls the shining pool 

With its loud and stormy rain. 



The shadow of the midnight hours There's a higher lore to learn 
Falls 'like a mantle round my form ; Than his knowledge can discern, 

And all the stars, like autumn flowers, There's a valley deep and dern 
Are banished by the whirling storm. | In a desolate domain ; 
b 2* 



18 LYRIC 


POEMS. 


But for this he has no chart — 


Yonder did they turn and go, 


Shallow science, shallow art ! 


Through the level lawn below, 


Thither — oh, he still, my heart — 


With a stately step and slow, 


One too many did depart 


And long shadows in their train : 


From the halls of Linden Lane. 


Weaving dreams no thoughts could 


I can teach you better things ; 


mar, 
Down they wandered long and far, 


For I know the secret springs 


Gazing toward the horizon's bar, 


"Where the spirit wells and sings 


On their love's appointed star, 


Till it overflows the brain. 


Kising in the Lion's Mane. 


Come, when eve is closing in, 




When the spiders gray begin, 


As across a summer sea, 


Like philosophers, to spin 
Misty tissues, vain and thin, 


Love sailed o'er the quiet lea, 


Light as only love may be, 


Through the shades of Linden Lane. 


Freighted with no care or pain. 




Such the night; but with the morn 


While you sit as in a trance, 


Brayed the distant bugle-horn — 


Where the moon-made shadows 


Louder ! louder it was borne — 


dance, 


Then were anxious faces worn 


From the distaff" of Komance 


In the halls of Linden Lane. 


I will spin a silken skein : 




Down the misty years gone by 


With the trumpet's nearer bnfy, 


I will turn your azure eye ; 


Flashing but a league away, 


You shall see the changeful sky 


Saw we arms and banners gay 


Falling dark or hanging high 


Stretching far along the plain. 


Over the halls of Linden Lane. 


Neighing answer to the call, 




Burst our chargers from the stall ; 


Come, and sitting by the trees, 


Mounted, here they leaped the wall, 


Over long and level leas, 


There the stream : while in the hall 


Stretched between us and the seas, 


Eyes were dashed with sudden rain. 


I can point the battle plain : 




If the air comes from the shore, 


Belted for the fiercest fight, 


We may hear the billows roar ; 


And with swimming plume of white, 


But oh ! never, never more 


Passed the lover out of sight 


Shall the wind come as of yore 


With the hurrying hosts amain. 


To the halls of Linden Lane. 


Then the thunders of the gun 




On the shuddering breezes run, 


Those were weary days of woe, 


And the clouds o'erswept the sun, 


Ah ! yes, many years ago, 


Till the heavens hung dark and dun 


When a cruel foreign foe 


Over the halls of Linden Lane. 


Sent his fleets across the main. 




Though all this is in your books, 


Few that joined the fiery fray 


There are countless words and looks, 


Lived to tell how went the day ; 


Which, like flowers in hidden nooks, 


But that few could proudly say 


Or the melody of brooks, 


How the foe had fled the plain. 


There's no volume can retain. 


Long the maiden's eyes did yearn 




For her cavalier's return ; 


Come, and if the night be fair, 


But she watched alone to learn 


And the moon be in the air, 


That the valley deep and dern 


I can tell you when and where 


Was her desolate domain. 


Walked a tender loving twain : 




Though it cannot be, alas ! 


Leave your books awhile apart ; 


Yet, as in a magic glass, 


For they cannot teach the heart ; 


W r e will sit and see" them pass 


Come, and I will show the chart 


Through the long and rustling grass 


Which shall make the mystery 


At the foot of Linden Lane. 


plain. 



A LEAF FROM THE PAST. 19 


I can tell you hidden things 


! And sad remembrance prompts the lay 


"Which your knowledge never brings ; 


That telleth of the far away ; 


For I know the secret springs 


While wildly in her music swell 


"Where the spirit wells and sings, 


The glory, name, and land of Tell ! 


Till it overflows the brain. 


Then, youth and childhood, form 




the ring, 


Ah, yes, lightly sing and laugh- 


And, maidens, from the window 


Half" a child and woman half; 


lean, 


But your laughter is the chaff 


To bid the exile Switzer sing, 


Prom the melancholy grain ; 


And strike the trembling tambou- 


And, ere many years shall fly, 


rine ! 


Age will dim your laughing eye, 




And like me you'll totter by : 




For remember, love, that I 


A LEAF FROM THE PAST. 


Was the Maid, of Linden Lane. 






INSCRIBED TO HENRY W. LONG- 




FELLOW. 


THE SWISS STREET-SINGER. 






With thee, dear friend, though far 


Throw up the glassy casement wide, 


away, 


And fling the heavy blinds aside, 


I walk, as on some vanished day. 


To let the sunshine and the tide 


And all the past returns in beautiful 


Of music through the chamber glide. 


array. 


Oh, list ! it is a maiden young, 




Who singeth in a foreign tongue ; 


With thee I still pace to and fro 


She poureth songs in strangest guise, 


Along the airy portico, 


In words translated by her eyes. 


And gaze upon the flowers and river 


Come, youth and childhood, form 


winding slow. 


the ring, 




And, maidens, from the window 


And there, as in some fairy realm, 


lean, 


I hear the sweet birds overwhelm 


To bid the exile Switzer sing, 


The fainting air with music from the 


And strike the trembling tambou- 
rine ! 


lofty elm, 


And hear the winged winds, like 


The glistening azure in her eye 


bees, 


Hath something of her native sky ; 


Go swarming in the tufted trees, 


The music of the rill and breeze 


Or dropping low away, o ? erweighed 


Are mingled in her melodies ; 


with melodies. 


And in her form's tall graceful lines 




There's something of the mountain 


We walk beneath the cedar^s eaves, 


pines ; 


Where statued Ceres, with her 


And, oh, believe her soul may glow 


sheaves, 


As purely as the Alpine snow. 


Stands sheltered in a bower of trailing 


Come, youth and childhood, form 


vines and leaves. 


the ring, 




And, maidens, from the window 


Or strolling by the garden fence, 


lean, 


Drinking delight with every sense, 


To bid the exile Switzer sing, 


We watch th ; encamping sun throw 


And strike the trembling tambou- 
rine ! 


up his golden tents. 


With thee I wander as of old, 


Oh, gaze not on her scornfully, 


When fall the linden's leaves of 


For, gentle lady, like to thee," 


gold, 


That wandering maiden well may be 


Or when old winter whitely mantles 


Acquaint with pain and misery, — 


all the wold. 



20 



LYRIC POEMS. 



As when the low salt marsh was 

mown, 
"With thee I idly saunter down 
Between the long white village and 

the towered town. 

I see the sultry bridge and long, 
The river where the barges throng — 
The bridge and river made immortal 
in thy song. 

In dreams like these, of calm de- 
light, 

I live again the wintry night, 
When all was dark without, but all 
within was bright — 

"When she, fit bride for such as thou, 
She with the quiet, queenly brow, 
Read from the minstrel's page with 
tuneful voice and low. 

Still in the crowd or quiet nook, 
I hear thy tone — behold thy look — 
Thou speakest with thine eyes as from 
a poet's book. 

I listen to thy cheering word, 
And sadness, like the affrighted 
bird, 
Flies fast, and flies afar, until it is 
unheard. 



ROSALIE. 

A BALLAD. 

Full many dreamy summer days, 

Full many wakeful summer nights, 
Fair Rosalie had walked the ways 
Wherein young Love delights. 

Love took her by the willing hand — 
And oft she kissed the smiling boy — 
He led her through his native land, 
The innocent fields of Joy. 

As oft the evening tryst was set, 

In cedarn grottoes far apart, 
That young and lovely maiden met 
The Minstrel of her heart. 

Then Time, like some celestial barque, 
With viewless sails and noiseless 



Conveyed them through the starry 
dark 
Beyond the midnight shores. 

And once he sang enchanted words, 
In music fashioned to her choice, 
Until the many dreaming birds 
Learned beauty from his voice. 

He sang to her of charmed realms, 
Of streams and lakes discerned by 
chance, 
Of fleets, with golden prows and helms, 
Deep freighted with romance ; 

Of vales, of purple mountains far, 

With flowers below and stars above, 
And of all homelier things that are 
Made beautiful by Love ; 

Of rural days, when harvest sheaves 

Along the heated uplands glow, 

Or when the forest mourns its leaves 

And nests are full of snow. 

He sang how evil evermore 

Keeps ambush near our holiest' 
ground, 
But how an angel guards the door 
Wherever Love is found. 

Even while he sang new flowers had 
bloomed, 
New stai'S looked through the river 
mist, 
And suddenly the moon illumed 
The temple of their tryst. 

And with those flowers he crowned 
her there, 
With vows which Time should not 
revoke ; 
Then from the nearest bough his hair 
She bound with druid oak. 

Oh, moon and stars, oh, leaves and 
flowers, 
Ye heard their plighted accents 
then — 
And heard within those sacred bowers 
The tramp of armed men ! 

Her father spake ; his angry word 

The youth returned in keener heat ; 
But when replied the old man's sword, 
The youth lay at his feet. 



ROSALIE. 



21 



And as a dreamer breathless, weak, 
From some im measured turret 
thrown, 
For very terror cannot shriek, 
Fair Eosalie dropt down. 

They raised her in her drowning 
swoon, 
And placed her on a palfrey white ; 
A statue, paler than the moon, 

They bore her through the night. 

Loud rang the many horses' hoofs, 
Like forging hammers, fast and 
full; 
To her they seemed to tread on woofs 
Of deep and noiseless wool. 

And like a fated bridal flower, 

From some betrothed bosom blown, 
They bore her to her prison tower, 
And left her there alone. 

And when the cool auroral air 

Had won her tangled dreams apart, 
She found the blossoms in her hair — 
Their memory in her heart. 

She rose and paced the chamber dim, 
And watched the dying moon and 
stars, 
Until the sun's broad burning rim 
Blazed through the lattice bars. 

About her face the warm light stole, 

And yet her eyes no radiance won ; 
For through the prison of her soul 
There streamed no morning sun. 

The day went by ; and o'er the vale 

She saw the rising river mist ; 

And like a bride subdued and pale, 

Arrayed her for the tryst, 

In nuptial robes, long wrought by 
stealth, 
With opals looped, pearl-broidered 
hems ; 
And at her waist a cinctured wealth 
Of rare ancestral gems. 

The stars came out, and by degrees 
She heard a distant music swell, 
"While through the intervening trees 
Sang the glad chapel bell. 



She heard her name, and knew the 
call: 
At once the noiseless door swung 
wide ; 
She passed the shadowy stair and 
hall— 
And One was at her side. 

One, whose dear voice had charmed 
her long, 
And wooed her spirit to delight, 
With airs of wild unwritten song, 
On many a summer night. 

They passed the village hand-in-hand ; 
They gazed upon the minster towers, 
And heard behind a singing band 
Of maidens bearing flowers. 

Age blessed them as they gayly passed, 

And rosy children danced before, 
Until with trembling hearts at last 
They gained the chapel door. 

But music in its triumph brings 

Newcourage unto old and young; 
And with a rustle, as of wings, 
The choir arose and sung. 

And while the anthem, loud or low, 
Swung round them like a golden 
cloud, 
They walked the aisle, subdued and 
slow, 
And at the altar bowed. 

And sacred hands were o'er them 
spread, 
And blessings passed away in 
prayer, 
And then the soul of music sped 
Once more throughout the air. 

It swelled and dropped and waned and 
rose, 
W"ith flights forever skyward given, 
Like birds whose pinions spread and 
close, 
And rise thereby to heaven. 

A murmur, like the soft desire 

Of leafy airs, went up the skies, 
And Rosalie beheld the choir 
On angel wings arise. 



22 LYRIC 


POEMS. 


Bright angels all encompassed her, 


And when you crowd the old barn 


An angel in the altar stood, 


eaves, 


And all her train of maidens were 


Then think what countless harvest 


A winged multitude. 


sheaves 




Have passed within that scented door 


The chapel walls dissolved and swept 


To gladden eyes that are no more. 


Away, like mists when winds arise, 




For Rosalie that hour had kept 


Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; 


Her tryst in Paradise. 


And when your children crowd your 




knees, 




Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, 




As if old memories stirred their heart : 


THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 


To youthful sport still leave the swing, 




And in sweet reverence hold the 


Between broad fields of wheat and 


spring. 


corn 
Is the lowly home where I was born ; 




The peach-tree leans against the wall, 


ENDYMION. 


And the woodbine wanders over all ; 




There is the shaded doorway still, 


What time the stars first flocked 


But a stranger's foot has crossed the 


into the blue 


sill. 


Behind young Hesper, shepherd of 




the eve, 


There is the barn— and, as of yore, 


Sleep bathed the fair boy's lids with 


I can smell the hay from the open door, 


charmed dew, 


And see the busy swallows' throng, 


'Mid flowers that all day blossomed 


And hear the peewee's mournful song ; 


to receive 


But the stranger comes — oh ! painful 


Endymion. 


proof — 




His sheaves are piled to the heated 


Lo ! where he lay encircled in his 


roof. 


dream ; 




The moss was glad to pillow his 


There is the orchard — the very trees 


soft hair, 


"Where my childhood knew long 


And toward him leaned the lily from 


hours of ease, 


the stream, 


And watched the shadowy moments 


The hanging vine waved wooing in 


run 


the air 


Till my life imbibed more shade than 


Endymion. 


sun : 
The swing from the bough still 


The brook that erewhile won its easy 


sweeps the air, 


way, 


But the stranger's children are swing- 


O'errun with meadow grasses long 


ing there. 


and cool, 




Now reeled into a fuller tide, and lay 


There bubbles the shady spring below, 


Caressing in its clear enamored pool 


"With its bulrush brook where the 


Endymion. 


hazels grow ; 




'Twas there I found the calamus root, 


And all the sweet, delicious airs that 


And watched the minnows poise and 


fan 


shoot, 


Enchanted gardens in their hour 


And heard the robin lave his wing: — 


of bloom, 


But the stranger's bucket is at the 


Blown through the soft invisible pipes 


spring. 


of Pan, 




Breathed, 'mid their mingled music 


Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, 


and perfume, 


Step lightly, for I love it still ; 


Endymion. 



A GLIMPSE OF LOVE. 



23 



The silvery leaves that rustled in the 
light, 
Sent their winged shadows o'er his 
cheek entranced ; 
The constellations wandered down the 
night, 
And whispered to the dew-drops 
where they danced, 
Endymion. 

Lo ! there he slept, and all his flock 
at will 
Went star-like down the meadow's 
azure mist : — 
What wonder that pale Dian with a 
thrill 
Breathed on his lips her sudden 
love, and kissed 
Endymion ! 



HAZEL DELL. 

From the early bells of morning, 
Till the evening chimes resound, 

In the busy world of labor, 

For my daily bread I'm bound, 

With no hopes of more possessions 
Than six scanty feet of ground ! 

But my soul hath found an empire, 
Hid between two sister hills, 

Where she dreams or roams at 
pleasure, 
Finding whatsoe'er she wills ; 

There sweet Hope her fairest promise 
With a lavish hand fulfils. 

And the path that windeth thither, 
There's no mortal foot may tread, 

For it leads to charmed valleys, 
With enchanted blossoms spread, 

Under groves of flowering poplars, 
Through the violets' purple bed. 

Overveiled with vines and water, 
Dropt from many a hidden well, 

Are the rocks which make the gate- 
way ; 
And the water's silver bell 

Keeps the warder, Silence, wakeful 
At the gate of Hazel Dell ! 

Kor may any pass the warder 
Till the watchword they repeat ; 



They must go arrayed like angels, 

In their purity complete ; 
And the stave-supported pilgrim 

Lay the sandals from his feet ! 

And within the purple valley, 
Where perpetual summer teems, 

Whisper silken-tongued runnels, 
Melting into larger streams, 

Winding round through' sun and 
shadow, 
Like a gentle maiden's dreams. 

Then let labor hold me vassal, 

Since my soul can scorn his reign ! 

Even fetters for the body 

Were but bands of sand, and 
vain, 

While the spirit thus can wander, 
Singing through its own domain ! 

In the long still hours of darkness, 
Stretched from weary chime to 
chime, 

Thus beside my own Castalie 
I can gather flowers 'of rhyme, 

And with all their fresh dew freighted, 
Fling them on the stream of time ! 



A GLIMPSE OF LOVE. 

She came as comes the summer w T ind, 
A gust of beauty to my heart ; 

Then swept away, but left behind 
Emotions which shall not depart. 

Unheralded she came and went, 
Like music in the silent night ; 

Which, when the burthened air is 
spent, 
Bequeaths to memory its delight ; 

Or, like the sudden April bow 

That spans the violet-waking rain : 

She bade those blessed flowers to 
grow 
Which may not fall or fade again. 

Far sweeter than all things most 
sweet, 
And fairer than all things most fair, 
She came and passed with footsteps 
fleet, 
A shining wonder in the air. 



24 



LYRIC POEMS. 



LINES TO A BLIND GIKL. 

Blind as the song of birds, 

Feeling its way into the heart, — 

Or as a thought ere it hath words, — 
As blind thou art : — 

Or as a little stream 

A dainty hand might guide apart, 
Or Love — young Love's delicious 
dream, — 

As blind thou art : — 

Or as a slender barque, 

Where summer's varying breezes 
start — 
Or blossoms blowing in the dark, — 

As blind thou art : — 

Or as the Hope, Desire 

Leads from the bosom's crowded 
mart, 
Deluded Hope, that soon must tire, — 

As blind thou art : — 

The chrysalis that folds 

The wings that shall in light depart, 
Is not more blind than that which 
holds 

The wings within thy heart. 

For when thy soul was given 

Unto the earth, a beauteous trust, 

To guard its matchless glory, Heaven 
Endungeoned it in dust. 



ONCE MOEE INTO THE OPEN 
AIB. 

Once more into the open air, 

Once more beneath the summer 
skies, 

To fields and woods and waters fair, 
I come for all which toil denies. 

I loiter down through sun and shade, 
And where the waving pastures 
bloom, 

And near the mowers' swinging blade 
Inhale the clover's sweet perfume. 

The brook which late hath drank its 
fill, 
Outsings the merry birds above ; 



The river past the neighboring hill 
Flows like a quiet dream of love. 

Yon rider in the harvest plain, 

The master of these woods and 
fields, 

Knows not how largely his domain 
To me its richest fulness yields. 

He garners what he reaps and mows, 

But there is that he cannot take, 
The love which Nature's smile be- 
stows, 
The peace which she alone can 
make. 



LOVE'S GALLEKY. 

PICTURE FIRST. 

MIKIAM. 

Fair Miriam's was an ancient manse 

Upon the open plain : 
It looked to ocean's dim expanse, 
Saw miles of meadow pasture dance 

Beside the breezy main. 

A porch, with woodbines overgrown, 
Faced eastward to the shore ; 

While autumn's sun, through foliage 
brown, 

'Twixt leaf and lattice flickered down 
To tessellate the floor. 

There walked fair Miriam ; — as she 
stept, 

A rustle thrilled the air ; 
Bare, starry gems her tresses kept, 
While o'er her brow a crescent swept 

The darkness of her hair. 

But she too oft had paced the hall 

To ponder chronicles which Time 
Had given at many an interval — 
Ancestral shadows on the wall 
Looking their pride sublime. 

And she too well had learned their 
look, 

And wore upon her tender age 
A haughtiness I could not brook — 
I said, It is a glorious book, 

But dared not trust the page. 



LOVE'S GALLERY. 25 


PICTURE SECOND. 


The past was hers ; the coming years 




No golden promise brought : — 


BERTHA. 


She gazed upon the midnight spheres 




To read her future ; and the tears 


Mild Bertha's was a home withdrawn 


Sprang vassals to her thought. 


Beyond the city's din ; 




Tall Lombard trees hemmed all the 


She heard all night through her do- 


lawn, 


main 


And up the long straight walks a 


The river moan below ; 


dawn 


The whippoorwill and owlet's strain 


Of blossoms shone within. 


Filled up the measure of her pain 




In streams of fancied woe. 


Along the pebble paths the maid 




Walked with the early hours, 


Thus as the mournful Melanie 


With careful hands the vines arrayed, 


Swept through my waking dream, 


And plucked the small intruding 


I said, Oh soul, still wander free, 


blade 


It is not written thou shalt see 


From formal plots of flowers. 


Thy image in this stream. 


A statued Dian to the air 




Bequeathed its mellow light ; 




She called the flying figure fair, 


PICTURE FOURTH. 


The forward eyes and backward 




hair, 


AURELIA. 


And praised the marble's white. 






Where flamed a field of flowers — and 


Her pulses coursed their quiet ways, 


where 


From heart to brain controlled ; 


Sang noisy birds and brooks — 


She read and praised in studied phrase 


Aurelia to the frolic air 


The bards whom it were sin to praise 


Shook down her wanton waves of hair, 


In measured words and cold. 

* 


With laughter-loving looks. 


I love the broad bright world of snow, 


Her large and lustrous eyes of blue, 


And every strange device 


Dashed with the dew of mirth, 


Which makes the woods a frozen 


Bequeathed to all their brilliant hue ; 


show, 


She saw no shades, nor even knew 


The rivers hard and still — but, oh, 


She walked the heavy earth. 


Ne'er loved a heart of ice. 






Her ringing laughter woke the dells 




When fell the autumn blight ; — ■ 




She sang through all the rainy spells — 


PICTURE THIRD. 


For her the snow was full of bells 




Of music and delight. 


MELANIE. 






She swept on her bewildering way, 


Within a dusky grove, where wound 


By every pleasure kissed, — 


Great centenarian vines, 


Making a mirth of night and day ; 


Binding the shadows to the ground, 


A brook all sparkle and all spray, 


The dark-eyed Melanie was found 


Dancing itself to mist. 


Walking between the pines. 






I love all bright and happy things, 


A sudden night of hair was thrown 


And joys which are not brief; 


About her shining neck ; 


All sights and sounds whence pleasure 


All woes she buried in her own — 


springs ; 


Her sea of sadness carried down 


But weary of the harp whose strings 


All lighter thoughts to wreck. 

3 


Are never tuned to grief. 



26 



LYRIC POEMS. 



PICTURE FIFTH. 



AMY. 



Bound Amy's home were pleasant 
trees — 

A quiet summer space 
Of garden flowers and toiling bees ; 
Below the yellow harvest leas 

Waved welcome to the place. 

And Amy she was very fair, 

With eyes nor dark nor blue ; 
And in her wavy chestnut hair 
Were braided blossoms, wild and rare, 
Still shimmering with the dew. 

Her pride was the unconscious guise 

Which to the pure is given : 
Her gentle prudence broke to sighs, 
And smiles were native to her eyes, 
As are the stars to heaven. 

Here, love, said I, thy rest shall be, 

Oh, weary, world- worn soul ! 
Long tossed upon this shifting sea, 
Behold, at last the shore for thee 
Displays the shining goal. 

Dear Amy, lean above me now, 
And smooth aside my hair, 
And bless me with thy tender vow, 
And kiss all memories from my brow, 
Till thou alone art there. 



THE MINERS. 

Burrow, burrow, like the mole, 
Ye who shape the columned caves ! 
Ye are black with clinging coal, 
Black as fiery Afric's slaves ! 
Sink the shadowy shaft afar 
Deep into our native star ! 
Rend her iron ribs apart, 
Where her hidden treasures are, 
Nestled near her burning heart ! 
Dig, nor think how forests grow 
Above your heads — how waters flow 
Responsive to the song of birds — 
How blossoms paint in silent words 
What hearts may feel but cannot 

know ! 
Dig ye, where no day is seen ; 
Vassals in the train of Night, 
Build the chambers for your Queen, 



Where with starless locks she lies, 
Robbed of all her bright disguise ! 
There no precious dews alight, 
None but what the cavern weeps, 
Down its scarred and dusky face ! 
There's no bird in all the place; 
Not a simple flower ye mark, 
Not a shrub or vine that creeps 
Through the long, long Lapland dark ! 
Burrow, burrow, like the mole, 
Dark of face, but bright of soul ! 
Labor is not mean or low ! 
Ye achieve, with every blow, 
Something higher than ye know ! 
Though your sight may not extend 
Through your labors to the end, 
Every honest stroke ye give, 
Every peril that ye brave 
In the dark and dangerous cave, 
In some future good shall live 1 



THE WINNOWER. 

Sings a maiden by a river, 

Sings and sighs alternately ; 
In my heart shall flow forever, 

Like a stream, her melody. 
In her hair of flaxen hue 

Tend 'rest buds and blossoms gleam ; 
And her beauty glows as through g 

Hazy splendors of a dream. 
Like her melody's rich bars — 
Or a golden flood of stars, — 
Rustling like a summer rain, 
Through her fingers falls the grain, 
Swells her voice in such sweet measure, 
I must join for very pleasure ; 
But my lay shall be of her, 
Bright and lovely Winnower! 

When her song to laughter merges, 

Melts the music of her tongue, 
Like a streamlet's silver surges 

Over golden pebbles flung. 
From her hands the grainless chaff 

On the light winds dances free; 
But a sigh will check her laugh, — 

u So much worthlessness, ah me, 
Mingles with the good!" saith she. 
Yet the grain is fair to see. 
Laughter, like some sweet surprise, 
Lights again her dewy eyes, 
And her song hath drowned her sighs ; 
Therefore will I sing of her, 
Bright and lovely Winnower ! 



FRAGMENTS FROM THE REALM OF DREAMS. 



27 



Down beside as fair a river 
Sings the Maiden Poesy ; 

In my heart shall flow forever 
Her undying melody. 

Through her rosy fingers fall 

Golden grains of richest thought ; 

"While the grainless chaff is all 

By the scattering breezes caught : — 
" So much worthlessness, ah me, 
Mingles with the good!" saith she. 

Yet the grain is bright to see. 

Therefore laughs she merrily ! 

Laughs and sings in such sweet meas- 
ure, 

I must join for very pleasure — 

While my heart keeps time with her, 

I will praise the "Winnower ! 



FRAGMENTS FROM THE 
KEALM OP DREAMS. 

" The baseless fabric of a vision." 

Oft have I wandered through the 

Realm of Dreams, 
By shadowy mountains and clear 

running streams, 
Catching at times strange transitory 

, gleams 
Of Eden vistas, glimmering through 

a haze 
Of floral splendor, where the birds, 

ablaze 
With color, streaked the air, like fly- 
ing stars, 
With momentary bars ; 
And heard low music breathe above, 

around, 
As if the air within itself made 

sound, — 
As if the soul of Melody were pent 
Within some unseen instrument 
Hung in a viewless tower of air, 
And with enchanted pipes beguiled 

its own despair. 
But stranger than all other dreams 

which led, 
Asleep or waking, my adventurous 

tread, 
Were these which came of late to 

me 
Through fields of slumber, and did 

seem to be 
Wrapped in an awful robe of prophecy. 



I walked the woods of March, and 

through the boughs 
The earliest bird was calling to his 

spouse ; 
And in the sheltered nooks 
Lay spots of snow, 
Or with a noiseless flow 
Stole down into the brooks ; 
And where the spring-time sun had 

longest shone 
The violet looked up and found itself 

alone. 
Anon I came unto a noisy river, 
And felt the bridge beneath me sway 

and quiver ; 
Below, the hungry waters howled 

and hissed, 
And upward blew a blinding cloud 

of mist; 
But there the friendly Iris built its 

arch, 
And I in safety took my onward 

march. 
Now comino; to a mighty hill, 
Along the shelvy pathway of a rill 
Which danced itself to foam and spray, 
I clomb my steady way. 
It may be that the music of the brook 
Gave me new strength — it may be 

that I took 
Fresh vigor from the mountain air 
Which cooled my cheek and fanned 

my hair ; 
Or was it that adown the breeze 
Came sounds of wondrous melodies, — 
Strange sounds as of a maiden's voice 
Making her mountain home rejoice? 
Following that sweet strain, I 

mounted still 
And gained the highest hemlocks of 

the hill, 
Old guardians of a little lake, which 

sent 
Adown the brook its crystal merri- 
ment, 
Blessing the valley where the planter 

went 
Sowing the furrowed mould and 

whistling his content. 
Through underwood of laurel, and 

across 
A little lawn shoe-deep with sweetest 

moss, 
I passed, and found the lake, which, 

like a shield 
Some giant long had ceased to wield, 



28 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Lay with its edges sunk in sand and 

stone, 
With ancient roots and grasses over- 
grown ; 
But far more beautiful and rare 
Than any strange device that e'er 
Glittered upon the azure field 
Of ancient warrior's polished shield, 
"Was the fair vision which did lie 
Embossed upon the burnished lake, 
And in its sweet repose did make 
A second self that sang to the in- 
verted sky. 
Not she who lay on banks of thorn- 
less flowers 
Ere stole the serpent into Eden's 

bowers ; 
Not she who rose from Neptune's 

deep abodes, 
The wonder of Olympian Gods ; 
Nor all the fabled nymphs of wood 

or stream 
Which blest the Arcadian's dream, 
Could with that floating form com- 
pare, 
Lying with her golden harp and 

hair 
Bright as a cloud in the sunset air. 
Her tresses gleamed with many 

stars, 
And on her forehead one, like Mars, 
A lovely crown of light dispread 
Around her shining head. 
And now she touched her harp and 

sung 
Strange songs in a forgotten tongue ; 
And as my spirit heard, it seemed 
To feel what it had lived or dreamed 
In other worlds beyond our skies, — 
In ancient spheres of Paradise ; 
And as I gazed upon her face, 
It seemedthat I could dimly trace 
Dear lineaments long lost of yore 
Upon some unremembered shore, 
Beyond an old and infinite sea, 
In the realm of an unknown century. 
For very joy I clapped my hands, 
And leaped upon the nearer sands ! — 
A moment, and the maiden glanced 
Upon me where I stood entranced ; 
Then noiselessly as moonshine falls 
Adown the ocean's crystal walls, 
And with no stir or wave attended, 
Slowly through the lake descended ; 
Till from her hidden form below 
The waters took a golden glow, 



As if the star which made her fore- 
head bright 

Had burst and filled the lake with 
light ! 

Long standing there I watched in 
vain, — 

The vision would not rise again. 

Again, in sleep, I walked by singing- 
streams, 
And it was May-day in my Bealm of 

Dreams : — 
The flowering pastures and the trees 
Were full of noisy birds and bees ; 
And, swinging roses, like sweet 

censers, went 
The village children making merri- 
ment, 
Followed by older people ; — as they 

passed 
One beckoned, and I joined the last. 
We crossed the meadow, crossed the 

brook, 
And through the scented woodland 

took 
Our happy way, until we found 
An open space of vernal ground ; 
And there around the flowery pole 
I joined the joyous throng and sang 

with all my soul ! 
But when the little ones had crowned 

their queen, 
And danced their mazes to the 

wooded scene 
To hunt the honeysuckles, and carouse 
Under the spice-wood boughs, — 
I turned, and saw with wondering 

eye 
A maiden in a bower near by 
Wreathed with unknown blossoms, 

such as bloom 
In orient isles with wonderful per- 
fume. 
And she was very beautiful and 

bright ; 
And in her face was much of that 

strange light 
Which on the mountain lake had 

blessed my sight : 
Her speech was like the echo of that 

song 
Which on the hill-side made me 

strong. 
Now with a wreath, now with a coin 

she played, 
Pursuing a most marvellous trade — 



"COME, GENTLE TREMBLER." 



29 



Buying the lives of young and old, 
Some with Fame, and some with gold ! 
And there with trembling steps I came, 
But ere I asked for gold or fame, 
Or ere I could announce my name, 
The wreath fell withered from her 

head, 
And from her face the mask was shed ; 
Her mantle dropped — and lo ! the 

morning sun 
Looked on me through a nameless 

skeleton ! 

Again I stood within the Realm of 

Dreams, 
At midnight, on a huge and shadowy 

tower • 
And from the east the full moon shed 

her beams, 
And from the sky a wild meteoric 

shower 
Startled the darkness ; and the night 
Was full of ominous voices and 

strange light, 
Like to a madman's brain ; — below, 
Prophetic tongues proclaiming woe 
Echoed the sullen roar 
Of Ocean on the neighboring shore ; 
And in the west a forest caught the 

sound, 
And bore it to its utmost bound. 
And then, for hours, all stood as to 

behold 
Some great event by mighty seers 

foretold ; 
And all the while the moon above 

the sea 
Grew strangely large and red, — and 

suddenly, 
Followed by a myriad stars, 
Swung at one sweep into the western 

sky, 
And, widening with a melancholy 

roar, 
Broke to a hundred flaming bars, 
Grating the heavens as with a 

dungeon door. 
Then to that burning gate 
A radiant spirit came, and through 

the grate 
Smiled till I knew the Angel, Fate ! 
And in its hand a golden key it bore 
To open that celestial door. 
Sure, I beheld that angel thrice ; 
Twice met on earth, it mocked me 

twice : 



But now behind those bars it beamed 
Such love as I had never dreamed, 
Smiling my prisoned soul to peace 
With eyes that promised quick re- 
lease ; 
And looks thus spake to looks, where 

lips on earth were dumb : 
" Behold, behold, the hour is come !" 



"COME, GENTLE TKEMBLEK." 

Come, gentle trembler, come — for, 
see, 
Our hearts have lost their native 
fires ; 
The vacant world invites us, — we 
Must go the heirless heirs of count- 
less sires. 



Were not so desolate as ours ; 
Beside the singing brooks we'll roam, 
And seek a sweet community of 
flowers. 

Here are the dwellings whence the 
few 
We loved, departed ; where they 
lead 
We follow — these their tombs; — but 
who 
Shall write our epitaphs, and who 
shall read ? 

Hark, how thelight winds flow and ebb 
Along the open halls forlorn ! 

See how the spider's dusty web 
Floats at the casement, tenantless 
and torn ! 

The old, old Sea, as one in tears, 
Comes murmuring with its foamy 
lips, _ 
And, knocking at the vacant piers, 
Calls for its long-lost multitude of 
ships. 

Against the stone-ribbed wharf, one 
hull 
Throbs to its ruin like a breaking 
heart : 
Oh, come, my breast and brain are full 
Of sad response — Let Silence keep 
the mart ! 



3* 



30 



LYRIC POEMS. 



THE FKOZEN GOBLET. 

The night was dark, the winds were 

loud, 
The storm hung low in a swinging 

cloud ; 
The blaze on my chamber lamp was 

dim. 
And athwart my brain began to swim 
Those visions that only swim and sweep 
Under the wavering wings of Sleep : — 
And suddenly into my presence came 
A Spectre, thin as that dismal flame 
That burns and beams, amoving lamp, 
Where the dreary fogs of night en- 
camp. 
Her lips were pale, her cheeks were 

white, 
Her eyes were full of phantom light. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
A goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of mine ; 
But mocked them with its frozen wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

I could not speak, I could not stir, 
I could do nought but look at her ; 
Nought but look in .her wonderful 

eyes, 
And lose me in their mysteries. 
The goblet shone, the goblet glowed, 
But from its rim no liquid flowed. 
Its sides were bright with pictures rare 
Of demons foul and angels fair, 
And Life and Death o'er Youth con- 
tending, 
And Love onluminous wings descend- 
ing, 
Celestial cities with golden domes, 
And caverns full of laboring gnomes. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of mine, 
But mocked them with its frozen wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

Loud rang the bell through the storm} 7 

air, 
And the clock replied on the shadowy 

stair, 
And Chanticleer awoke and flung 
The echo from its silvery tongue- 
All nature with a sudden noise 
Proclaimed the momentary poise 
Of that invisible beam, that weighs 
At midnight the divided days. 



The Phantom beckoned and turned 

away, 
I had no power to speak or stay : — 
We passed the dusky corridor, 
Her sandal gems illumed the floor, 
And with a ruddy, phosphor light, 
The frozen goblet lit the night. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of mine, 
But mocked them with its frozen wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

She led me through enchanted woods, 
Through deep and haunted solitudes, 
By threatening cataracts, and the 

edges 
Of high and dizzy mountain ledges, 
And over bleak and perilous ridges, 
To frail and air-suspended bridges, 
Where, in the muffled dark beneath, 
Invisible rivers talked of death, 
Until, for very sympathy 
With the unfathomed mystery, 
I cried, " Here I resign my breath, 
Here let me taste the cup of Death !" 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held again to lips of mine, 
But mocked them with its frozen wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

And then a voice within me said, 
" Wouldst thou journey to the dead ?— 
Shed this mantle, and pass forever 
Into the black, eternal river ? — 
For very sympathy, depart 
Prom the tumult of this heart? 
Know'st thou not that mightier river, 
Polling on in darkness ever, 
Ever sweeping, coiling, boiling, 
Howling, fretting, wailing, toiling, 
Where every wave that breaks on 

shore 
Is a human heart that can bear no 

more ?" 
Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of mine, 
But mocked them with the frozen 

wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

And then in sorrow and shame I 

cried, 
"Oh, take me to that river's side, 



THE CITY OF THE HEART. 



31 



And I will shun the languid shore, 
And plunge me into the dark uproar, 
And drink of the waters till they 

impart 
A generous sense, and ahuman heart. ' ' 
A nd all at once, around me rose 
A mingled mutiny of woes, 
And my soul discerned these sounds 

to be 
The wail of a wide humanity ; 
Till my bosom heaved responsive 

sighs, 
And tremulous tears were in my eyes. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of mine, 
And at their instant touch, the wine 
Flowed freely from the dusky ice. 

E drank new life, I could not stop, 
But drained it to its latest drop, 
Till the Phantom with the goblet rare 
Dissolved into the shadowy air — 
Dissolved into the outer gloom, 
And once more I was in m£ room ; 
Yet oft before my waking eyes 
The figures of that goblet rise — 
The angels and the iiends at strife, 
And Youth ; twixt warring Death and 

Life— 
The domes — the gnomes — mysterious 

things! 
And Love descending on bright wings. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
Fair Memory holds to lips of mine, 
And bathes them with the sacred wine, 
The tribute of that dusky ice. 



THE CITY OF THE HEAET. 

The heart is a city teeming with life — 
Through all its gay avenues, rife 
With gladness 
And innocent madness, 
Bright beings are passing along, 
Too fleeting and fair for the eye to 
behold, 
"While something of Paradise sweet- 
ens their song, 
They are gliding away with their wild 
gushing ditty, 
Out of the city, 
Out of the beautiful gates of gold ! 



Through gates that are ringing 
"While to and fro swi nging, 
Swinging and ringing ceaselessly, '" 
Like delicate hands that are clapped 
in glee, 
Beautiful hands of infancy ! 

The heart is a city — and gay are 
the feet 
That dance along 
To the jo} r ous beat 
Of the timbrel that giveth a pulse 
to song. 
Bright creatures enwreathed 

With flowers and mirth, 
Fair maidens bequeathed 
With the glory of earth, 
Sweep through the long street, and 

singing await, 
A moment await at the wonderful 

gate ; 
Every second of time there comes to 

depart 
Some form that no more shall revisit 

the heart ! 
They are gliding away and breathing 
farewell — 
How swiftly they pass 
Through the gates of brass, 
Through gates that are ringing 
"While to and fro swinging, 
And making deep sounds, like the 

half-stifled swell 
Of the far-away ring of a gay mar- 
riage bell ! 

The heart is a city with splendor 

bedight, 
"Where tread martial armies arrayed 
for the fight, 
Under banner-hung arches, 
To war-kindling marches, 
To the fife and the rattle 
Of drums, with gay colors unfurled, 
On, eager for battle, 
To smite their bright spears on the 

spears of the world ! 
Through noontime, through mid- 
night, list, and thou'lt hear 
The gates swing in front, then clang 
in the rear. 
Like a bright river flowing, 
The war host is going, 
And like to that river, 
Returning, ah, never! 



32 LYRIC 


POEMS. 


Through daylight and darkness low 


Forever falling in ambrosial hues 


thunder is heard 


Through the far loving skies, 


From the city that flings 


Beyond the flaming walls of long-lost 


Her iron-wrought wings, 


Paradise ; 


Flapping the air like the wings of a 


Or grown beside that fabled river 


"bird! 


Where it is spring-time ever ; 




Where, when the aged pilgrim stooped 


The heart is a city — how sadly and 


and drank, 


slow, 


He rose again upon that primrose 


To and fro, 


bank 


Covered with rust, the solemn gates 


In all the bloom of youth to bloom 


go! 


forever. 


With meek folded palms, 


Ah, well for Beauty's transient bowers 


"With heads bending lowly, 


If they might bud and blow in life's 


Strange beings pass slowly 


autumnal hours : — 


Through the dull avenues, chanting 


For she who wore that bridal wreath 


their psalms ; 


Was Naples' noblest child ; 


Sighing and mourning, they follow 


The fairest maid that e'er beguiled 


the dead 


An Abbot of a prayerful breath. 


Out of the gates, that fall heavy as 


And he who rode beside her there 


lead- 


Was Fame and Fortune's richest 


Passing, how sadly, with echoless 


heir ; 


tread , 


One who had come from foreign 


The last one is fled ! 


realms afar 


No more to be opened, the gates softly 


To dazzle. like a new-discovered star. 


close, 


Yet as they passed between the crowd 


And sliut in a stranger who loves the 


He looked not scornfully nor proud, 


repose ; 


But to the beggars thronging every 


With no sigh for the past, with no 


side 


countenance of pity, 


Scattered the golden coin in plenteous 


He spreads his black flag o'er the des- 


rain, 


olate city ! 


And smiled to see their joy insane. 




And, passing, thus addressed the 




bride : — 


THE BEGGAK OF NAPLES. 






" The merry hells make music sweet, 


The music of the marriage bell 


But never to the beggar's ear 


Woke all the morning air to pleasure, 


Fell music half so sweet and clear 


And breasts there were that rose and 


As the chime of gold when it strikes 


fell 


the street ; 


To the delightful measure. 


It drives their hearts to swifter swing- 


Oh, well it were if they might hear 


ing, 


alway 


And fills their "brains with gladder 


The music of their nuptial day 


ringing 


Flowing, as o'er enchanted lakes and 


Than ever bells will swing or ring, 


streams 


Even though the sturdy sacristan 


Out of the land of dreams — 


Should labor the very best he can 


Sweet sounds that melt but never 


To chime for the wedding of a king. 


cease, 


Such sights to me will always bring 


Dropped from celestial hells of peace. 


The story of a beggar, who 


Oh, well it were if those rare hridal 


Perchance has ofttimes begged of 


flowers 


you ; 


Had drunken deep of life's perpetual 


And here the tale may well be told, 


dews, 


To while away this idle gait 


Had drunken of those charmed show- 


That keeps us from our happy fate : 


ers 


For Time is very lame and old 



THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 



33 



Whene'er the surly graybeard brings 
A prayed-for pleasure on his wings ; 
But robbing us of a joy can flee 
As fleet of foot as Mercury. 

" Avoiding every wintry shade, , 
The lazzaroni crawled to sunny 

spots, — 
At every corner miserable knots 
Pursued their miserable trade, 
And held the sunshine in their asking 

palms, 
Which gave unthanked its glowing 

alms, 
Thawing the blood until it ran 
As wine within a vintage runs. 
And there was one among that beg- 
ging clan, 
One of Italia's listless dreamy sons, 
A native Neapolitan — 
A boy whose cheeks had drawn their 

olive tan 
From fifteen summer suns. 
Long had he stood with naked feet 
Upon the lava of the street, 
With shadowy eyes cast down, 
Making neither a smile nor frown, 
And in the crowd he stood alone, 
Alone with empty hanging hands, 
And through his brain the idle 

dreams 
Slid down like idle sands, 
Or hung like mists o'er sleeping 

streams 
In uninhabitable lands. 
To him, I ween, the same, 
All seasons went and came ; 
Nor did ambition's pomp and show 
Disturb his fancy's tranquil flow ; 
For, like the blossom of the soil, 
Existence was his only toil. 

" One morn (the bells had summoned 
all to mass) 

He knelt before the old cathedral 
door — 

At such a place the wealthier who 
pass 

Will throw a pious pittance to the 
poor, 

Who kneel with face demure, 

With their mute eyes and hands say- 
ing their ' alas !' 

Oh, beautiful it was to see him there, 

Looking his wordless prayer, 



With solemn head depressed, 

And hands laid crosswise on his 

breast, — 
Such figures saw Murillo in his dream, 
The painter and the pride of Spain ; 
With such he made his living canvas 

gleam, 
As canvas touched by man may never 

gleam again. 

" Upon the beggar's heart the matin 

hymn 
Fell faint and dim, 
As when upon some margin of the 

sea 
The fisher breathes the briny air, 
And hears the far waves' symphony, 
But hears it unaware. 
The music from the lofty aisle, 
And all the splendor of the sacred 

pile,— 
The pictures hung at intervals 
Like windows, giving from the walls 
Clear glimpses of the days agone, 
From that blest hour when over Beth- 
lehem shone 
The shepherds' Star, until that darker 

time 
When groaned the earth aloud with 

agony sublime : 
All were unheedf d, 
And came, but as his breath ; 
Or if there came a thought, that 

thought unheeded 
Even in its birth met death. 
The names of Baphael, — Angelo, — 

Lorraine, — 
Da Yinci, — Kosa, — Titian, — and the 

rest, 
Are sounds to thrill the Italian's soul 

and brain 
With all the impulse native to his 

breast ; 
And Dante, — Petrarch, — these are 

mighty names 
The meanest tongue with a true pride 

proclaims ; 
And Ariosto's song a loved bequest ; 
And Tasso's sung by all — by all is 

loved and blest. 
But what cared he, the sunburnt beg- 
gar boy ? 
All these bequeathed no other joy 
Than did the silent stars, 
Or morn or evening with their golden 

bars, 



34 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Or the great azure arch of day, 
Or his own bright, unrivalled bay, 
Or old Vesuvius' deathless flames — 
And these to him alone were empty 
sights and names. 

" Few were there who did any alms 

bestow, 
For few will hear accustomed sounds 

of woe ; 
Yet there was one among that few 
"Who but a moment stopped, 
And in the beggar's hands the silver 

dropped, 
And shed the benediction of her smile. 
Such smile as hers might well renew 
A heart to its lost light, and might 

beguile 
The shadow of a mourner's hour ; 
Such smiles are like the blessed dew 
By evening shed upon a wayside 

flower, 
Sinking to the heart of hearts with a 

miraculous power. 
The earliest primrose of the spring, 
"Which at the brook-side suddenly in 

sight 
Gleams like a water sprite ; 
And the first herald bird on southern 

wing, 
Chanting his wild, enthusiastic rhyme 
About the summer-time — 
Wake in the soul an instant, deep de- 
light ! 
But there are eyes whose first sweet 

look 
Outshines the primrose by the brook ; 
And there are lips whose simplest 

words 
Outrival even the spring-time birds. 
Ah, well, I ween, the beggar felt their 

power, 
And wore them in his heart from that 

bright hour. 
She passed — a maiden very young 

and fair, 
Of an illustrious house the pride and 

heir ; 
She passed — but ah, she left 
The miserable boy bereft ! — 
Bereft of all that quiet which had lain 
Like a low mist within his brain, — 
The idle fogs of some rank weedy 

isle 
Hanging on the breezeless atmosphere, 
Over a miasmatic mere ; — 



All this beauty of her smile 

Had blown into a storm that would 

not rest again. 
At once upstarting from his knees, 
He watched her as she went ; 
The blood awakened from its slothful 

ease, 
Through all his frame a flaming flood 

was sent. 
He stood as with a statue's fixed sur- 
prise, 
Great wonder making marble in his 

eyes ! 
She, like a morn, had dawned upon 

his soul ; 
And now he saw the marvellous whole 
Of that mysterious land, 
And felt a sense of awe, as they who 

stand 
For the first time upon an alien 

strand, — 
Some sailor of a foreign sea, 
Who, from the smooth waves swing- 
ing lazily, 
Is thrown upon a shore 
Where life is full of noise and strife 

for evermore. 
He stood awake ; and suddenly there 

burst 
The music of the organ on his brain, 
And into every sense athirst 
Dispensed a welcome rain. 
Now that his soul had passed from its 

eclipse, 
All things at once became a glorious 

show ; 
Now could he see the sainted pictures 

t glow ; 
And instantly unto his lips 
Boiled fragments of old song — 
Fragments which had been thrown 
Into his heart unknown, 
And buried there had lain in silence 

deep and long. 

"He saw his fellows kneel where he 

had knelt 
With tattered garb and supplicating 

air ; 
And for the first time in his life he felt 
How mean was his attire, and that 

his feet were bare. 
He sighed, and bit his lips, and passed 

away ; 
And from that day 
His fellows idly as before, 



THE BRICKMAKER. 



35 



"Without a hope, without a care, 
Stood clustered in the sunny air, 
But there the beggar boy was seen no 
more. 

" His childhood, like a dry and sandy 

bar, 
Lay all behind him as he hurled 
His soul's hot barque to sea, and wide 

unfurled 
The straining sail upon a billowy 

world. 
And now he joined the sacred fleet 

afar, 
And 'mid tempestuous waves of war 
Defied the Saracen and Death, 
And won the warrior's laurel wreath, 
And gave his beggar name to Fame's 

industrious breath. 

"Years came and went, and no one 

missed the boy, 
Nor wept his long farewell ; 
They little guessed how much their joy 
Was of his deeds to tell. 
And when he knew his native town 
Had learned to talk of his renown, 
The youth a bearded man returned ; 
And more than for renown he yearned 
To see that blessed smile again 
"Which erst made beauty in his brain, 
And ever in the van of war 
Had shone a most propitious star. 
He came, and she of whom he long 

had dreamed 
With hopes which nought could e'er 

destroy, 
In brighter beauty on him beamed, 
And blessed him with a deeper ]oy ; 
Even she, the noblest lady of the land, 
Bestowed on him her virgin hand ! 
Ah, sure it was the fairest alms 
That ever blessed a beggar's palms ! 

11 To him the chime which filled the 

skies 
Upon his nuptial morn, 
"When down the loving breezes borne, 
Did seem to be by angels rung 
From silver bells of Paradise, 
In golden turrets hung. 
And she, who woke the boy to man, 
As little dreamed, I guess, as now, 
My gentle lady, as dost thou, 
How proud she was to wed that bare- 
foot Neapolitan." 



THE BKICKMAKER. 



Let the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground, 
And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulded. 

In no stately structures skilled, 
What the temple we would build ? 
Now the massive kiln is risen — 
Call it palace — call it prison ; 
View it well : from end to end 
Narrow corridors extend, — 
Long, and dark, and smothered 

aisles : — 
Choke its earthly vaults with piles 

Of the resinous yellow pine ; 
Now thrust in the fettered fire — 
Hearken ! how he stamps with ire, 

Treading out the pitchy wine ; 
Wrought anon to wilder spells, 

Hear him shout his loud alarms ; 

See him thrust his glowing arms 
Through the windows of his cells. 

But his chains at last shall sever ; 
Slavery lives not forever ; 
And the thickest prison wall 
Into ruin yet must fall ; 
Whatsoever falls away 
Springeth up again, they say ; 
Then, when this shall break asunder, 
And the fire be freed from under, 
Tell us what imperial thing 
From the ruin shall upspring ? 

There shall grow a stately building, 
Airy dome and columned walls ; 

Mottoes writ in richest gilding 
Blazing through its pillared halls. 

In those chambers, stern and dreaded, 
They, the mighty ones, shall stand ; 

There shall sit the hoary-headed 
Old defenders of the land. 

There shall mighty words be spoken, 
Which shall thrill a wondering 
world ; 

Then shall ancient bonds be broken, 
And new banners be unfurled. 

But anon those glorious uses 
In these chambers shall lie dead, 



36 



LYRIC POEMS. 



And the world's antique abuses, 
Hydra-headed, rise instead. 

But this wrong not long shall linger- 
The old capitol must fall ; 

For, behold ! the fiery finger 
Flames along the fated wall ! 



ii. 



Let the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground, 
And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulded — 
Till the heavy walls be risen, 
And the fire is in his prison : 
But when break the walls asunder, 
And the fire is freed from under, 
Say again what stately thing 
From the ruin shall upspring ? 

There shall grow a church whose 
steeple 

To the heaven shall aspire ; 
And shall come the mighty people 

To the music of the choir. 

On the infant, robed in whiteness, 
Shall baptismal waters fall, 

"While the child's angelic brightness 
Sheds a halo over all. 

There shall stand enwreathed in mar- 
riage 
Forms that tremble — hearts that 
thrill ; 
To the door Death's sable carriage 
Shall bring forms and hearts grown 
still ! 

Decked in garments richly glistening, 
Rustling wealth shall walk the 
aisle ; 

And the poor without stand listening, 
Praying in their hearts the while. 

There the veteran shall come weekly 
"With his cane, oppressed and poor, 

'Mid the horses standing meekty, 
Gazing through the open door. 

But these wrongs not long shall lin- 
ger— 

The presumptuous pile must fall ; 
For, behold ! the fiery finger 

Flames along the fated wall ! 



Let the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground, 
And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulded — 
Say again what stately thing 
From the ruin shall upspring ? 

Not the hall with columned chambers, 
Starred with words of liberty, 

Where the freedom-canting members 
Feel no impulse of the free ; 

Not the pile where souls in error 
Hear the words, "Go, sin no more !" 

But a dusky thing of terror, 
"With its cells and grated door. 

To its inmates each to-morrow 
Shall bring in no tide of joy. 

Born in darkness and in sorrow, 
There shall stand the fated boy. 

With a grief too loud to smother, 
With a throbbing, burning head — 

There shall groan some desperate 
mother, 
Nor deny the stolen bread ! 

There the veteran, a poor debtor, 
Marked with honorable scars, 

Listening to some clanking fetter, 
Shall gaze idly through the bars : 

Shall gaze idly, not demurring, 
Though with thick oppression 
bowed ; 
While the many, doubly erring, 
Shall walk honored through the 
crowd. 

Yet these wrongs not long shall lin- 
ger — 

The benighted pile must fall ; 
For, behold ! the fiery finger 

Flames along the fated wall ! 

IV. 

Let the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground, 
And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulded — 



INDIAN SUMMER. 



37 



Till the heavy walls be risen 
And the fire is in his prison. 
Capitol, and church, and jail, 
Like our kiln at last shall fail ; 
Every shape of earth shall fade ; 
But the Heavenly Temple made 
For the sorely tried and pure, 
With its Builder shall endure ! 



SONG FOR A SABBATH 
MORNING. 

Arise, ye nations, with rejoicing 

rise, 
And tell your gladness to the listening 

skies ; 
Come out, forgetful of the week's tur- 
moil, 
From halls of mirth and iron gates 

of toil ; 
Come forth, come forth, and let your 

joy increase 
Till one loud paean hails the day of 

peace. 
Sing, trembling age, ye youths and 

maidens sing ; 
Ring, ye sweet chimes, from every 

belfry ring ; 
Pour the grand anthem till it soars 

and swells, 
And heaven seems full of great aerial 

bells ! 

Behold the Morn from orient cham- 
bers glide, 
With shining footsteps, like a radiant 

bride ; 
The gladdened brooks proclaim her on 

the hills, 
And everv grove with choral welcome 

thrills. 
Rise, ye sweet maidens, strew her path 

with flowers, 
With sacred lilies from your virgin 

bowers ; 
Go, youths, and meet her with your 

olive boughs ; 
Go, age, and greet her with your 

holiest vows ; — 
See where she comes, her hands upon 

her breast, 
The sainted Sabbath comes, and 

smiles the world to rest. 



THE NAMELESS. 

Come fill, my merry friends, to-night, 

And let the winds unheeded blow, 
And we will wake the deep delight 

Which true hearts only know. 
And ere the passing wine be done, 

Come drink to those most fair and 
dear, v 

And I will pledge a cup to one 

Who shall be nameless here. 

Come fill, nor let the flagon stand, 

Till pleasure's voice shall drown 
the wind, 
Nor heed old Winter's stormy hand 

Which shakes the window-blind. 
And down the midnight hour shall 
run 

The brightest moments of the year ; 
While I will fill, my friends, to one 

Who shall be nameless here. 

Pledge you to lips that smile in sleep, 

Whose dreams have strewed your 
path with flowers, 
And to those sacred eyes that weep 

Whene'er your fortune lowers ; 
And charm the night, ere it be done, 

With names that are forever dear, 
While I must pour and quaff to one 

Who shall be nameless here. 

To her I proudly poured the first 

Inspiring beaker of the Rhine, 
And still it floods my veins as erst 

It filled the German vine. 
And when her memory, like the sun, 

Shall widen down my dying year, 
My latest cup will be to one 

Who shall be nameless here. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

It is the season when the light of 

dreams 
Around the year in golden glory 

lies ; — 
The heavens are full of floating 

mysteries, 
And down the lake the veiled splendor 

beams ! 
Like hidden poets lie the hazy 

streams, 



38 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Mantled with mysteries of their 

own romance, 
While scarce a breath disturbs their 
drowsy trance. 
The yellow leaf which down the soft 

air gleams, 
Glides, wavers, fulls, and skims the 
unruffled lake. 
Here the frail maples and the faith- 
ful firs 
By twisted vines are wed. The russet 
brake 
Skirts the low pool ; and starred 

with open burrs 
The chestnut stands — But when the 
north wind.stirs, 
How, like an armed host, the sum- 
moned scene shall wake ! 



A MORNING, BUT NO SUN. 

The morning comes, but brings no 

sun ; 
The sky with storm is overrun ; 
And here I sit in my room alone, 
And feel, as I hear the tempest moan, 
Like one who hath lost the last and 

best, 
The dearest dweller from his breast ! 
For every pleasant sight and sound, 
The sorrows of the sky have drowned ; 
The bell within the neighboring 

tower 
Falls blurred and distant through the 

shower ; 
Look where I will, hear what I may, 
All, all the world seems far away ! 
The dreary shutters creak and swing, 
The windy willows sway and fling 
A double portion of the rain 
Over the weeping window-pane. 
But I, with gusty sorrow swayed, 
Sit hidden here, like one afraid, 
And would not on another throw 
One drop of all this weight of woe ! 



TO THE MASTER BARDS. 

Ye mighty masters of the song sub- 
lime, 

Who, phantom-like, with large un- 
wavering, eyes, 



Stalk down the solemn wilderness of 

Time, 
Reading the mysteries of the future 

skies ; 
Oh, scorn not earth because it is not 

heaven ; 
Nor shake the dust against us from 

your feet, 
Because we have rejected what was 

given ! 
Still let your tongues the wondrous 

theme repeat ! 
Though ye be friendless in this soli- 
tude, 
Quick-winged thoughts, from many 

an unborn year, 
God-sent, shall teed ye with prophetic 

food, 
Like those blest birds which fed the 

ancient Seer ! 
And Inspiration, like a wheeled flame, 
Shall bear ye upward to eternal fame ! 



"OH, WHEREFORE SIGH?" 

Oh, wherefore sigh for what is gone, 
Or deem the future all a night ? 

From darkness through the rosy dawn 
The stars go singing into light. 

And to the pilgrim lone and gray, 
One thought shall come to cheer 
his breast ; — 

The evening sun but fades away 
To find new morning in the west. 



THE WAY. 

A weary, wandering soul am I, 
O'erburthened with an earthly 
weight ; 

A pilgrim through the world and sky, 
Toward the Celestial Gate. 

Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers, 
Who all night gaze upon the skies, 

Have ye not in the silent hours 
Seen aught of Paradise ? 

Ye birds, that soar and sing, elate 
With joy, that makes your voices 
strong, 

Have ye not at the golden gate 
Caught somewhat of your song? 



THE DEPARTURE. 39 


Ye waters, sparkling in the morn, 


The great are falling from us — one by 


Ye seas, which glass the starry 


one 


night, 


As fall the patriarchs of the forest- 


Have ye not from the imperial bourn 


trees, 


Caught glimpses of its light ? 


The winds shall seek them vainly, 




and the sun 


Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines, 


Gaze on each vacant space for cen- 


Ye mountain forests, old and 


turies. 


g ra y> 

In all your long and winding lines, 


Lo, Carolina mourns her steadfast 


Have ye not seen the way ? 


pine 




Which towered sublimely o'er the 


moon, among thy starry bowers, 


Southern realm, 


Know'st thou the path the angels 


And Ashland hears no more the voice 


tread ? 


divine 


Seest thou beyond thy azure towers 


From out the branches of its stately 


The shining gates dispread ? 


elm : — 


Ye holy spheres, that sang with 


And Marshfield's giant oak, whose 


earth, 


stormy brow 


"When earth was still a sinless star, 


Oft turned the ocean tempest from 


Have the immortals heavenly birth 


the West, 


Within your realms afar ? 


Lies on the shore he guarded long — 




and now 


And thou, sun ! whose light unfurls 


Our startled eagle knows not where 


Bright banners through unnum- 


to rest 1 


bered skies, 




Seest thou among thy subject worlds 




The radiant portals rise ? 




All, all are mute ! and still am I 


THE DEPARTURE. 


O'erburthened with an earthly 




weight ; 


All around me glows the harvest 


A pilgrim through the world and 


As I drop below the town, 


sky, 


And the pleasant song of workmen 


Toward the Celestial Gate. 


On the breeze is floating down. 


No answer wheresoe'er I roam — 


Far away the slender brooklet 


From skies afar no guiding ray; 


Gleams upon the yellow plain, 


But, hark ! the voice of Christ says, 


Like a newly sharpened sickle 


» Come! 


Dropped amid the golden grain. 


Arise ! I am the way !" 






By the town and through the valleys 




Sweeps the flashing river fast, 




Like a herald to the future 




With a summons from the past. 


THE GREAT ARE FALLING 




FROM US. 


Now my soul hath caught the music 




Of the happy harvest strain, 


The great are falling from us — to the 


And the stream of gladness flashes, 


dust 


Like the brooklet, in my brain. 


Our flag droops midway full of 




many sighs ; 


And, responsive to the river, 


A nation's glory and a people's trust 


How my spirit sweeps along, 


Lie in the ample pall where Web- 


As it goes to meet the future 


ster lies. 


With a purpose firm and strong ! 



40 



LYRIC POEMS. 



A PSALM FOR THE SORROW- 
ING. 

Gray wanderer in a homeless world, 
Poor pilgrim to a dusty bier ; 

On Time's great cycle darkly hurled 
Prom year to year : 

See in the sky these words unfurled : 
" Thy home is here !" 

Pale mourner, whose quick tears re- 
veal 

Thy weight of sorrow but begun : 
Not long thy burdened soul shall reel 

Beneath the sun ; 
A few swift circles of the wheel, 

And all is done. 

Though galled with fetters ye have 
lain, 

To vulture hopes and fears a prey ; 
Oh, moan not o'er your ceaseless pain 

Or slow decay ; 
For know, the soul thus files its chain 

And breaks away. 



NIGHT. 

Oh Night, most beautiful and rare ! 

Thou giv'st the heavens their holiest 
hue, 
And through the azure fields of air 

Bring'st down the gentle dew. 

Most glorious occupant of heaven, 
And fairest of the earth and sea, 

The wonders of the sky are given, 
Imperial Night, to thee ! 

For thou, with angel music blest, 
Didst stand in that dim age afar, 

And hold upon thy trembling breast 
Messiah's herald star ! 

In Olivet thou heard'st Him pray, 
And wept thy dews in softer light, 

And kissed his sacred tears away, 
Thrice blessed, loving Night ! 

And thou didst overweigh with sleep 
The watchers at the sepulchre ; 

And heard'st the asking Mary weep 
Till Jesus answered her. 



For this I love thy hallowed reign ; 

For more than this thrice blest thou 
art ; 
Thou gain'st the unbeliever's brain 

By entering at the heart ! 

Oh Night, whose loving smile divine 
Thus lifts the spirit from the dust, 

God's best and brightest gifts are 
thine — 
All thine, and it is just. 



WINTER. 

Sad soul — dear heart, O why repine? 

The melancholy tale is plain — 
The leaves of spring, the summer 
flowers 

Have bloomed and died again. 

The sweet and silver-sandalled Dew, 
Which like a maiden fed the flowers, 

Hath waned into the beldame Frost, 
And walked amid our bowers. 



still !— 
Which looked awhile unto the 

sky, 
Then breathed but once or twice, to 
tell 
How sweetest things may die I 

And some must blight where many 
bloom ; — 
But, blight or bloom, the fruit must 
fall! 
Why sigh for spring or summer 
flowers, 
Since Winter gathers all? 

He gathers all— but chide him not — 
He wraps them in his mantle cold, 

And folds them close, as best he 
can, 
For he is blind and old. 

Sad soul — dear heart, no more re- 
pine — 

The tale is beautiful and plain : 
Surely as Winter taketh all, 

The Spring shall bring again. 



THE DISTANT MART. 



41 



THE BARDS. 

When the sweet day in silence hath 
departed, 
And twilight comes with dewy, 
downcast eyes, 
The glowing spirits of the mighty- 
hearted 
Like stars around me rise. 

Spirits whose voices pour an endless 
measure, 
Exhaustless as the choral founts of 
night, 
Until my trembling soul, oppressed 
with pleasure, 
Throbs in a flood of light. 

Old Homer's song in mighty undula- 
tions 
Comes surging ceaseless up the 
oblivious main : — 
I hear the rivers from succeeding 
nations 
Go answering down again. 

Hear Yirgil's strain through pleasant 
pastures strolling, 
And Tasso's sweeping round 
through Palestine, 
And Dante's deep and solemn river 
rolling 
Through groves of midnight pine. 

I hear the iron Norseman's numbers 
ringing 
Through frozen Norway like a 
herald's horn ; 
And like a lark, hear glorious Chau- 
cer singing 
Away in England's morn. 

In Rhenish halls, still hear the pil- 
grim lover 
Chant his wild story to the wailing 
strings, 
Till the young maiden's eyes are 
brimming over 
Like the full cup she brings. 

And here from Scottish hills the souls 
unquiet 
Pouring in torrents their perpetual 
lays, 
As their impetuous mountain runnels 
riot 
In the long rainy days ; 



The world-wide Shakspeare — the im- 
perial Spenser : 
Whose shafts of song o'ertop the 
angels' seats, — 
While, delicate as from a silver censer, 
Float the sweet dreams of Keats ! 

Nor these alone — for through the 
growing present, 
Westward the starry path of Poesy 
lies — 
Her glorious spirit, like the evening 
crescent, 
Comes rounding up the skies. 



THE DISTANT MART. 

The day is shut : — November's night 
On Newark's long and rolling height 

Falls suddenly and soon ; — 
At once the myriad stars disclose ; 
And in the east a glory glows 
Like that the red horizon shows 

Above the moon. 

But on the western mountain tops 
The moon, in new-born beauty, drops 

Her pale and slender ring ; 
Still, like a phantom rising red 
O'er haunted valleys of the dead, 
I see the distant east dispread 

Its fiery wing. 

I know by thoughts, which, like the 

skies, 
Grow darker as they slowly rise 

Above my burning heart, 
It is the light the peasant views, 
Through nightly falling frost and 

dews, 
While Fancy paints in brighter hues 
The distant mart. 

Through shadowy hills and meadows 

brown 
The calm Passaic reaches down 

Where the broad waters lie ; — 
From hill-side homes what visions 

teem ! 
The fruitless hope — ambitious 

dream — 
Go freighted downward with the 

stream, 
And yonder die ! 



42 



LYRIC POEMS. 



And youths and maids with strange 

desires 
O'er quiet homes and village spires 

Behold the radiance grow ; 
They see the lighted casements fine — 
The crowded halls of splendor shine — 
The gleaming jewels and the wine — 

But not the woe ! 

Take from yon flaunting flame the 

ray 
"Which glows on heads untimely gray, 

On blasted heart and brain, — 
From rooms of death the watcher's 

lamp, 
From homes of toil, from hovels 

damp, 
And dens where Shame and Crime 

encamp 
With Want and Pain : 

From vain bazaars and gilded halls, 
Where every misnamed pleasure palls, 

Kemove the chandeliers ; 
Then mark the scanty, scattered 

rays, 
And think amid that dwindled blaze 
How few shall walk their happy ways 

And shed no tears I 

But now, when fade the fevered- 
gleams, 
Some trouble melts away to dreams, 

Some pain to sweet repose : — 
And as the midnight shadows sweep, 
Life's noisy torrent drops to sleep, 
Its unseen current dark and deep 

In silence flows. 



THE TWINS. 

From a beautiful lake on the moun- 
tain 

Two rivulets came down, 
Prattling awhile to the violets, 

'Mid shadows green and brown. 

Over beds of golden lustre, 

Around by rock and tree, 
They sang the same tune with their 
silvery tongues, 

And clapped their hands in glee. 



Over rocks with mosses mantled, 
They eddied and whirled, like a 
waltzing pair, 
Till, hand in hand, with laughter and 
leap 
They mingled their misty hair. 

Over the self-same ledges, 
Singing the self-same tune, 

They passed from April to breezy May, 
Toward the fields of June. 

They whirled, and danced, and dallied, 
And through the meadows slid, 

Till under the same thick grass and 
flowers 
Their further course was hid ! 

I saw two beautiful children 

Of one fair mother born, 
Playing among the dewy buds 

That bloomed beneath the morn. 

The same in age and beauty, 
The same in voice and size, 

The same bright hair upon their necks, 
The same shade in their eyes. 

Singing the same song ever 

In the self-same silvery tune, 
They passed from April into May, 
!r Toward the fields of June. 

They whirled, and danced, and dallied 
The beautiful vales amid, 

Till under the same thick leaves and 
flowers 
Their future course was hid. 



LINES WRITTEN IN FLOR- 
ENCE. 

Within this far Etruscan clime, 
By vine-clad slopes and olive plains, 

And round these walls still left by 
Time, 
The boundaries of his old domains : — 

Here at the dreamer's golden goal, 
Whose dome o'er winding Arno 
drops, 
Where old Romance still breathes its 
soul 
Through Poesy 's enchanted stops : — 



A SIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN. 



43 



Where Art still holds her ancient 
state 
(What though her "banner now is 
furled), 
And keeps within her guarded gate 
The household treasures of the 
world: — 

"What joy amid all this to find 
One single bird, or flower, or leaf, 

Earth's any simplest show designed 
For pleasure, what though frail or 
brief — 

If but that leaf, or bird, or flower, 
Were wafted from the western 
strand, 

To breathe into one happy hour 
The freshness of my native land ! 

That joy is mine — the bird I hear, 
The flower is blooming near me now, 

The leaf that some great bard might 
wear 
In triumph on his sacred brow. 

For, lady, while thy voice and face 
• Make thee the Tuscan's loveliest 

guest, 
Within this old romantic space 

Breathes all the freshness of the 
West. 



A NIGHT AT THE BLACK 
SIGN. 

Ye, who follow to the measure 

Where the trump of Fortune leads, 

And at inns aglow with pleasure 
Rein your golden-harnessed steeds, 

In your hours of lordly leisure 
Have ye heard a voice of woe 

On the starless wind of midnight 
Come and go ? 

Pilgrim brothers, whose existence 
Rides the higher roads of Time, 

Hark, how from the troubled distance, 
Voices made by woe sublime, 

In their sorrow, claim assistance, 
Though it come from friend or foe — 

Shall they ask and find no answer? 
Rise and go. 



One there was, who in his sadness 
Laid his staff and mantle down, 
Where the demons laughed to madness 
What the night-winds could not 
drown — 
Never came a voice of gladness 
Though the cups should foam and 
flow, 
And the pilgrim thus proclaiming 
Rose to go. 

" All the night I hear the speaking 
Of low voices round my bed, 

And the dreary floor a-creaking 
Under feet of stealth}^ tread : — 

Like a very demon shrieking 

Swings the black sign to and fro — 

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper, 
For I go. 

•' On the hearth the brands are lying 
In a black, unseemly show ; 
j Through the roof the winds are sigh- 
ing, 
And they will not cease to blow ; 
| Through the house sad hearts replying 
Send their answer deep and low — 
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper, 
For I go. 

" Tell me not of fires relighted 
And of chambers glowing warm, 

Or of travellers benighted, 
Overtaken by the storm. 

Urge me not ; your hand is blighted 
As your heart is — even so! 

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper, 
For I go. 

" Tell me not of goblets teeming 
With the antidote of pain, 

For its taste and pleasant seeming 
Only hide the deadly bane ; 

Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming, 
How they curse thee in their woe ! 

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper, 
For I go. 

" I will leave your dreary tavern 
Ere I drink its mandragore : 
I Like a black and hated cavern, 
There are reptiles on-the floor ; 
They have overrun your tavern, 
They are at your wine below ! 
Come, arise, thou fearful keeper, 
For I go. 



44 LYRIC 


POEMS. 


" There's an hostler in your stable 


How the tunnelling fox looked out 


Tends a steed no man may own, 


of his hole, 


And against your windy gable 


Like one who notes if the skies are 


How the night-birds scream and 


clear. 


moan ! 




Even the bread upon your table 


No mower was there to startle the 


Is the ashy food of woe ; 


birds 


Come, arise, thou fearful keeper, 


With the noisy whet of his reeking 


For I go. 


scythe ; 




The quail, like a cow-boy calling his 


" Here I will not seek for slumber, 


herds, 


And I will not taste your wine : 


Whistled to tell that his heart was 


All your house the fiends encumber, 


blithe. 


And they are no mates of mine ; 




Never more I join your number 


Now all was bequeathed with pious 


Though the tempests rain or snow — 


care — 


Here's my staff and here's my mantle, 


The groves and fields fenced round 


And I go." 


with briers — 




To the birds that sing in the cloisters 


Suffering brothers — doubly brothers — 


of air, 


(Pain hath made us more akin) 


And the squirrels, those merry 


Trust not to the strength of others, 


woodland friars. 


Trust the arm of strength within ; 




One good hour of courage smothers 




All the ills an age can know ; 




Take your staff and take your mantle, 


LINES TO A BIED 


Eise and go. 






WHICH SUNG AT MY WINDOW ONE 




MORNING IN LONDON. 


A DESEKTED FAEM. 






Whence comest thou, oh wandering 


The elms were old, and gnarled, and 


soul of song ? 


bent — 


Bound the celestial gates hast thou 


The fields, unfilled, were choked 


been winging, 


with weeds, 


And hearkening to the angels all night 


"Where every year the thistles sent 


long 


"Wider and. wider their winged seeds. 


To brighten earth with somewhat 




of their singing ? 


Farther and farther the nettle and dock 




"Went colonizing o'er the plain, 


Thou child of sunshine, spirit of the 


Growing each season a plenteous stock 


flowers ! 


Of burrs to protect their wild do- 


Nature, through thee, with loving 


main. 


tongue rejoices, 




Until these walls dissolve themselves 


The last who ever had ploughed the 


to bowers, 


soil 


And all the air is full of woodland 


Now in the furrowed churchyard 
lay — 
The bov who whistled to lighten his 


voices. 


The winds that slumbered in the fields 


toil 


of dew, 


Was a sexton somewhere far away. 


Float round me now with music on 




their pinions, 


Instead, you saw how the rabbit and 


Such as I heard while yet my years 


mole 


were few, 


Burrowed and furrowed with never 


By native streams, in boyhood's lost 


a fear ; 


dominions. 



THE SCULPTORS LAST HOUR. 



45 



And with the breath of morning on ' And, armed with courage, rise — and 

my brow, so depart ; 

I hear the accents of the few who i But what sweet bird shall sing to 

love me ; me to-morrow ? 

Sing on, full heart! I am no exile 



This is no foreign sky that smiles 
above me. 

I hear the happy sounds of household 
glee, 
The heart's own music, floating here 
to bless me, 
And little ones who smiled upon my 
knee 
Now clap the dimpled hands that 
would caress me. 

Oh ! music sweeter than the sweetest 
chime 
Of magic bells by fairies set a-swing- 
ing ; 
I am no pilgrim in a foreign clime, 
"With these blest visions ever round 



I hear a voice no melody can reach ; 
Dear lips, speak on in your accus- 
tomed measure. 
And teach my heart what you so well 
can teach, 
How only love is earth's enduring 
pleasure. 

Oh ! music sweeter than the Arca- 
dian's tune, 
Wooing the dryads from the wood- 
lands haunted ; 
Or than beneath the mellow harvest- 
moon 
Trembles at midnight over lakes 
enchanted ! 

Oh ! sweeter than the herald of the 
morn, 
The clarion lark, that wakes the 
drowsy peasant, 
Is this which thrills my breast, so else 
forlorn, 
And with the Past and distant fills 
the Present. 

Thus, with the music ringing in my 
heart, 
I may awhile forget an exile's sor- 
row, 



THE SCULPTOK'S LAST HOUR. 

All in their lifetime carve their oicn 
souVs statue. 

The middle chimes of night were 

dead ; — 
The sculptor pressed his sleepless bed, 
"With locks grown gray in a world of 

sin; 
His eyes were sunken, his cheeks were 
thin ; 
I And, like a leaf on a withering limb, 
; The fluttering life still clung to him. 

"While gazing on the shadowy wall, 

He heard the muflled knocker fall : — 
! Before an answering foot could stir, 

Entered the midnight messenger : 
\ Around his shining shoulders rolled 

Long and gleaming locks of gold ; 
! The radiance of his features fell 

In Beauty's light unspeakable, 
i And like the matin song of birds, 

Swelled the rich music of his words. 

I " Arise ! it is your monarch's will ; 

1 Ere sounds from the imperial hill 

' The warder's trumpet-blast, 
His palace portal must be passed : 
Arise ! and be the veil withdrawn, 

i And let the long-wrought statue 
dawn ! 

; The stars that fill the fields of light 
Must pale before its purer light ; 

I The unblemished face — the spotless 
limb, 
Must shine among the seraphim : 
Faultless in form — in nothing dim — 

! It must be ere it come to Him !" 

The sculptor rose with heavy heart, 
And slowly put the veil apart. 
; And stood with downcast look, en- 
tranced, 
The while the messenger advanced, 
And thought he heard, yet knew not 

why, 
His hopes like boding birds go by, 



46 



LYRIC POEMS. 



And felt his heart sink ceaselessly- 
Down, like the friendless dead at sea. 
O ! for one breath to stir the air, 
To break the stillness of despair ; 
Welcome alike, though it were given 
From sulphurous shade, or vales of 
heaven ! 

Now on the darkness swelled a sigh ! — 
The sculptor raised his languid eye, 
And saw the radiant stranger stand 
Hiding his sorrow with his hand ; 
His heart a billowy motion kept, 

And ever, with its fall and rise, 
The stillness of the air was swept 

With a long wave of sighs. 

The old man's anxious asking eyes 

Grew larger with their blank sur- 
prise, 
With wonder why he wept : — 

And while his eyes and wonder 
grew, 

Came, with the tears which gushed 
anew, 
The music of the stranger's tongue, 

But broken, like a swollen rill 

That heaves adown its native hill, 
Sobbing where late it sung : — 
* " Is this the statue fair and white 
A long laborious life hath wrought, 
And which our generous Prince 

hath bought ? 
Is this (so soulless, soiled, and dull) 

To pass the golden gates of light 
And stand among the beautiful ? 
The lines which seam the front and 

cheek 
Too well unholy lusts bespeak ; 
The brow by Anger's hand is weighed, 
And Malice there his scar hath made; 
There Scorn hath set her seal secure, 
And curled the lip against the poor ; 
And Hate hath fixed the steady glance 
Which Jealousy hath turned askance; 
While thoughts, of those dark parents 

born 
Innumerable, from night till morn, 
And morn till night, have wrought 

their will, 
Like stones upon a barren hill. 
Old man ! although thy locks be gray, 
And life's last hour is on its way — 
Although thy limbs with palsy 

quake, 
Thy hands, like windy branches, 
shake 



Ere from yon rampart high and round 
The watchful warder's blast shall 

sound, 
Let this be altered — still it may, — 
Your Monarch brooks no more delay!" 
The stranger spake and passed away. 

A moment stood the aged man 
With lips apart, and looks aghast, 
Still gazing where the stranger 
passed. 

And now a shudder o'er him ran, 

As chill November's breezes sweep 
Across the dying meadow grass ; 

His tongue was dry, he could not 
speak, 
His eyes were glazed like heated 



But when the tears began to creep 
Adown the channels of his cheek, 

A long and shadowy train, 

Born of his sorrowing brain, 
With shining feet, and noiseless tread, 
By dewy-eyed Kepentance led, 
Around the statue pressed : 
With eager hand and swelling breast, 
Hope, jubilant, the chisel seized 

And heavenward turned the eye ; 
Forgiveness, radiant and pleased, 
The ridges of the brow released • 

While with a tear and sigh 
Sweet Charity the scorn effaced ; 

And Mercy, mild and fair, 
Upon the lips her chisel placed, 

And left her signet there : 
And Love, the earliest -born of 
Heaven, 

Over the features glowing, ran ; 
While Peace, the best and latest given, 

Finished what Hope began. 

One minute now before the last, 

The stately stranger came ; 
A smile upon the statue cast — : 
Then to the fainting stranger passed, 
And spake his errand and his 
name; 
And on the old man's latest breath 
Swelled the sweet whisper, "Wel- 
come, Death !" 
Afar from the imperial height 
Sounded the warder's horn: 
Upward, by singing angels borne, 
The statue passed the gates of light, 
Outshining all the stars of night, 
And fairer than the morn. 



THE SCULPTORS FUNERAL. 



47 



THE SCULPTORS FUNERAL. 

Through the darkened streets of 

Florence, 
Moving toward thy church, Saint 

Lorenz, 
Marched the bearers, masked and 

singing, 
With their ghostly flambeaux fling- 
ing 
Ghostlier shadows, that went wing- 
ing 
Round the portals and the porches, 
As if spirits, which had hovered 
In the darkness undiscovered, 
Danced about the hissing torches, 
Like the moths that whirl and caper 
Drunken round an evening taper. 
Unconsoled and unconsoling 
Rolled the Arno, louder rolling 
As the rain poured— and the tolling 
Though the thick shower fell de- 
murely, 
Fell from out one turret only, 
"Where the bell swung sad and. lonely 
Prisoned in the cloud securely. 
Masked in black, with voices solemn, 
Strode the melancholy column, 
With a stiff and soulless burden, 
Bearing to the grave its guerdon, 
While the torch flames, vexed and 

taunted 
By the night winds, leapt and 

flaunted, 
'Mid the funeral rains that slanted, 
Those brave bearers marched and 

chanted, 
Through the darkness thick and 

dreary, 
With a woful voice and weary, 



MISERERE. 

Light to light, and dark to dark, 

Kindred natures thus agree ; 
Where the soul soars none can mark, 
But the world below may hark — 
Miserere. Domine! 

Dew to dew, and rain to rain, 

Swell the streams and reach the sea ; 
When the drouth shall burn the 

plain, 
Then the sands shall but remain — 
Misereres Domine I 



Flame to flame — let ashes fall 
Where the tireless ashes be ; 
Embers black and funeral 
Unto dying cinders call- 



Life to life, and dust to dust ! 

Christ, who died upon the tree, 
Thine the promise, ours the trust, 
We are weak — but thou art just — 
Miserere. Domine! 



FIRST BY-STANDER. 

There, stand aside, the very eaves are 

weeping 
As are the heavens in sympathy with 

us : — 
Italia's air hath not within its keeping 
A nobler heart than that which lies 

there sleeping, 
For whom the elements are wailing 

thus. 



SECOND BY-STANDER. 

I reverenced him — he was a marvel- 
lous schemer ; 
Hath built more airy structures in his 

day 
Than ever wild and opiate-breathing 

dreamer 
Hath drugged his dreams with even 

in Cathay. 
His fancy went in marble round the 

earth 
And whitened it with statues — where 

he trod 
The silent people leapt to sudden birth, 
And all the sky, exulting high and 

broad, 
Became a mighty Pantheon for God. 

THIRD BY-STANDER. 

You reverenced him? I loved him, 
with a scope 

Of feeling I may never know again ; 

And love him still, even though be- 
yond all hope 

The priest, the bishop, cardinal, and 
pope, 

Should banish him to wear a burning 
chain 



48 LYRIC 


POEMS. 


In those great dungeons of the un- 


Ye spirits who to glory have been led, 


forgiven, 


In years agone, departed souls of 


Under the space-deep castle walls of 


might, 


heaven. 


Make joyful space in heaven, for 


I know the Church considered it a sin, 


our delight 


I know the Duke considered it a 


On earth is dead. 


shame — 
That our Alzoni would not stoop to 






win 


And thus with melancholy songs they 


What any blunderer, nowaday, may 


bore him 


claim, 


Into the chapel — 'twixtthe columns 


A niche in Santa Croce, — which hath 


vast 


been, 


They set the bier, and lit great tapers 


And is, to them, the very shrine of 


o'er him, 


Fame ! 


And looked their last. 


Why, look you, why should one carve 




out his soul 


They looked and pondered on his 


In bits to meet the world's unthankful 


dreamy history 


stare ; 


Whose sudden close had left them 


For Ignorance to hold in his control 


broken-hearted, 


And sly-eyed Jealousy's detracting 


Till cloudy censers veiled the light in 


glare ? 


mystery, 


To see the golden glories of his brain 


And they departed. 


Outglittered by a brazen counterfeit ? 




The starriest spirit only shines in vain, 




When every rocket can outdazzle it ! 


DOOMED AND FOKGOTTEN. 


CHORUS OF STUDENTS, FOLLOWING. 


Two mighty angels in the outer blue, 




With great palm-branches slanting 


They bear the great Alzoni — he is 


in their hands, 


dead, — 


Stood by the golden gate that guards 


Our hope is dead, and lies on yon- 


the view 


der bier ; 


Wherein God's temple stands. 


There is no comfort left for any here 




Since he is dead. 


So still they were, the porphyry pillars 
high 
That propt the fretted cornice and 


Oh, mother Florence, droop your 


queenly head, 


the frieze, 


And mingle ashes with your wreath 


Stood not more breathless when the 


of flowers — 


choral sky 


Build funeral altars in your ducal 
bowers ; 

For he is dead. 


Withheld its symphonies. 


And golden halos bound their brows 




in light, 


Oh, sacred Arno, be your ripples shed 


Till each head shone like Saturn 


No more in music o'er your silver 


with his rings, 


sands, 


And to their sandals, beautiful and 


But mourn to death, and wring 


bright 


your watery hands ; 


Went down their crosswise wings. 


For he is dead. 






Low at their feet, with pinions all 


Ye dusky palaces, whose gloom is wed 


distraught, 


To princely names that never may 


As they the Siroc's stormy path had 


depart, 


swept, 


Drown all your lights in tears — the 


And ashen cheeks still hot with burn- 


prince of Art, 


ing thought, 


Your hope, is dead ! 


A spirit sat and wept : — 



DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. 49 


And shed such tears as from the heart 


! Some God-sent angel, wavering down 


can flow 


the sky, 


Alone when Hope flies far from our 


Had sought him when the world was 


distress, 


most apart, 


Leaving no guide athwart the world 


! And given this vision to his dreaming 


of woe, 


eye, 


The pathless wilderness. 


And stamped it on his heart. 


Thus have I seen some sad and sight- 


Then he withdrew from all his fellow 


less one, 


youths, 


Before a palace with nor hound nor 


His heaven-touched soul with inspi- 


staff, 


ration filled, 


Sit weeping in the sultry dust, with 


And said, "My time is God's; the 


none 


cause is Truth's ; 


To speak in his behalf. 


Beneath their dome I build !" 


But happier far that prisoner from the 


For days and nights he walked the 


day, 


solemn wood, 


With all the sunlight mocking his 


Bounding to fullest form his great 


blank eyes, 


intent, 


Than him, whose doomed path for- 


And viewless phantoms all about him 


gotten lay 


stood, 


Along the under skies. 


And followed where he went. 


Doomed and forgotten ! These are 


If he despaired, the pine-cone in his 


sounds attuned 


way 


To all the world conceives of 


Fell from the limb that sentinels 


misery — 


the wind — 


And drown the heart, as if the last 


The small spring whispered courage 


wave swooned 


where it lay 


Above us in the sea ! 


In ancient rocks enshrined. 


Doomed and forgotten — by our God 


The wintry mountain stood with glory 


forgot, 


topt, 


"Who noteth even the sparrow in 


And Iris bound the laboring tor- 


his fall ; 


rent's brow, 


"With whom the smallest living thing 


The acorn, full of future summers, 


is not 


dropt 


For His great care too small. 


From out the stormy bough. 


Doomed and forgotten — at the angels' 


The flowery vines in Nature's unseen 


feet 


hand 


He sat with dull and weary wings 


Curled into wreaths, as if Fame 


deprest, — 


wandered there, — 


But now, where once the song of 


The laurel, leaning o'er the pathway, 


peace was sweet, 


fanned 


There came no voice of rest. 


The brightness of his hair. 


There was a time, while yet his cheek's 


There was a time ! — oh, sad and bitter 


soft glow 


breath 


Bloomed in the boyhood of his 


That sighs o'er loss of days, no 


earthly years, 


more to be — 


He had a vision, which no man may 


Of actions dropt to dreams — and 


know, 


dreams to death, 


That drowned his eyes with tears. 


And then — Eternity ! 


d I 





50 



LYRIC POEMS. 



There crouched the spirit, abject and 
forlorn , 
Upon the azure high way , like a blot, 
And raised its low voice, for they 
needs must mourn, 
The doomed and the forgot. 

But soon, abashed to hear his own 
"alas!" 
He took his way aslant the nether 
space — 
And, wheresoe'er a star beheld him 
pass, 
It turned and veiled its face ! 

Oh soul, remember, howe'er small the 
scope 
Of thought, or action, that around 
thee lies, 
It is the finished task alone can ope 
The gates of Paradise. 



SONG OF THE ALPINE 
GUIDE. 

Ojst Zurich's spires, with rosy light, 

The mountains smile at morn and 
eve, 
And Zurich's waters, blue and bright, 

The glories of those hills receive. 
And there my sister trims her sail, 

That like a wayward swallow flies ; 
But I would rather meet the gale 

That fans the eagle in the skies. 

She sings in Zurich's chapel choir, 

Where rolls the organ on the air, 
And bells proclaim, from spire to spire, 

Their universal call to prayer. 
But let me hear the mountain rills, 

And old St. Bernard's storm-bell 
toll, 
And, 'mid these great cathedral hills, 

The thundering avalanches roll. 

My brother wears a martial plume, 

And serves within a distant land, — 
The flowers that on his bosom bloom 

Are placed there by a stranger hand. 
Love meets him but in foreign eyes, 

And greets him in a foreign 
speech : — 
But she who to my heart replies 

Must speak the "tongue these moun- 
tains teach. 



The warrior's trumpet o'er him swells, 

The triumph which it only hath ; 
But let me hear the mule-worn bells 

Speak pejace in every mountain 
path. 
His spear is ever 'gainst a foe, 

Where waves the hostile flag 
abroad ; — 
My pike-staff only cleaves the snow, 

My banner the blue sky of God. 

On Zurich's side my mother sits, 

And to her whirring spindle sings — 
Through Zurich's wave my father's 
nets 

Sweep daily with their filmy wings 
To that beloved voice I list 

And view that father's toil with 
pride ; 
But, like a low and vale-born mist, 

My spirit climbs the mountain side. 

And I would ever hear the stir 

And turmoil of the singing winds, 

Whose viewless wheels around me 

whir, 

Whose distaffs are the swaying 

pines. 

And, on some snowy mountain head, 

The deepest joy to me is given, 
When, net-like, the great storm is 
spread 
To sweep the azure lake of heaven. 

Then, since the vale delights me not, 

And Zurich wooes in vain below, 
And it hath been my joy and lot 

To scale these Alpine crags of 
snow — 
And since in life I loved them well, 

Let me in death lie down with them, 
And let the pines and tempests swell 

Around me their great requiem. 



MOPvNING IN MAKTIGNY. 

'Tis sunrise on Saint Bernard's snow, 
'Tis dawn within the vale below •, 
And in Martigny's streets appear 
The mule and noisy mulet.eer ; 
And tinklings fill the rosy air, 
Until the mountain pass seems there, 
Up whose steep pathway scarcely stirs 
The long, slow line of travellers ; 
And in the shadowy town is heard 
The sound of many a foreign word. 



THE CITY OF GOD. 



51 



Old men are there, whose locks are 

white 
As yonder cloud which veils the 

height ; 
And maidens, whose young cheeks 

are kissed 

By ringlets flashing bright or dark, 

"Whose hearts are light as yonder mist 

That holds the music of the lark— 

And youths are there with jest and 

laugh, 
Each bearing his oft-branded staff 
To chronicle, when all is done, 
The dangerous heights his feet have 

won. 

So toils through life the pilgrim soul 
'Mid rocky ways and valleys fair ; 
At every base or glorious goal, 

His staff receives the record there — 
The names that shall forever twine, 
And blossom like a fragrant vine — 
Or, like a serpent, round it cling 
Eternally to coil and sting. 



A MAIDEN'S TEAES. 

O, when a maiden's soul is stirred 

To pity's deepest, last excess, 
And, like some lonely, brooding bird, 

Folds its bright wings in mourn- 
fulness ; 
And pours its sympathy in sighs, 

That sweeten on the rosy lips ; 
And sends the tears into the eyes, 

To flood them with a half eclipse, — 
How brighter its veiled beauty shows 
Than all the light which joy bestows ! 
Thus fairer the fair flower appears, 

Beneath a dewy fulness bowed ; 
The moon a double lustre wears, 

Within the halo of a cloud. 
The music of a maiden's mirth 
31 ay be the sweetest sound to earth ; 
But tears, in love and pity given, 
Are welcomer, by far, to Heaven. 

WOMAX. 

An angel wandering out of heaven, 
And all too bright for Eden even, 
Once through the paths of paradise 

Made luminous the auroral air; 
And, walking in His awful guise, 

Met the Eternal Father there ; 



Who, when He saw the truant sprite, 
Smiled love through all those bowers 

of light. 
While deep within his tranced spell, 

Our Eden sire lay slumbering near, 
God saw, and said, " It is not well 

For man alone to linger here." 
Then took that angel by the hand, 

And with a kiss its brow He prest, 
And whispering all His mild com- 
mand, 

He laid it on the sleeper's breast ; 
With earth enough to make it human, 
He chained its wings, and called it 

WOMAN. 

And if perchance some stains of rust 
Upon her pinions yet remain, 

'Tis but the mark of God's own dust, 
The earth-mould of that Eden 
chain 1 



THE CITY OF GOD. 

" Heaven lies about us in our infancy." — Words- 
worth. 

Ere the rose and the roseate hues of 

the dawn, 
With the dews of my youth, were all 

scattered and gone ; 
Ere the cloud, like the far-reaching 

wing of the night, 
Had shut out the glory of God from 

my sight, 
I saw a wide realm in the azure un- 
fold, 
Where the fields nodded towards me 

their flowers of gold ; 
And the soft airs sailed o'er them, and 

dropt from above, 
As if shed from innumerous pinions 

of love : 
There were trees with broad boles 

steeped in perfume and dew, 
While their full breasts forever leaned 

up to the blue — 
And within their wide bosoms the 

winds seemed to rest 
With the calm like the sleep of a soul 

that is blest ; 
Or, if any light rustle stole out from 

their limbs, 
'Twas the murmurous music of deli- 
cate hymns — ' 



52 



LYRIC POEMS. 



As if some dear angel sat singing 

within 
To a spirit just won from the regions 

of sin : 
There were streams which seemed 

born but in slumberous bowers, 
Stealing down, like a dream, through 

the sleep of the flowers — 
So pure was the azure they won from 

the height, 
The blue h ills seemed melting to rivers 

of light ; 
And within this fair realm, where but 

angels have trod, 
I beheld, as I thought, the great City 

or God ! 
All its high walls were pierced with 

no engines of Death — 
No moat, with its dull pool, lay stag- 
nant beneath : 
The last bolts, I ween, the stout heart 

has to fear, 
Are pointed and sped from Death's 

citadel here ; 
And the last hungry moat the pure 

soul has to brave,. 
Ere it passes the portal to bliss, is the 

grave ! 
There the wide wall went east till it 

dimmed to the view — 
And the wide wall went west till it 

passed into blue ; 
And the broad gates stood open, in- 
viting that way, 
Like the hands of the Lord to his 

children astray. 
There were high towers, climbing still 

dazzlingly higher, 
Till each shone like a fixed guiding 

pillar of fire ; 
And the angels who watched on their 

summits afar, 
So lessened by distance, gleamed each 

as a star : 
And the great dome that templed the 

Father in light, 
Seemed to swell and to circle and swell 

on the sight — 
As some angel who cleaves his bright 

way 'mid the spheres, 
Beholds the blue dome of the earth as 

he nears. 
There was music — my soul unto mem- 
ory yields, 
And hears the low sounds floating 

over the fields — 



But, alas ! not as then, with its rap- 
turous desire — 
Like some bird that sits hushed by 

the song of a choir ; 
It melted and flowed o'er the walls 

and the towers, 
And sweet as if breathed from the 

lips of the flowers — 
As if the bright blossoms, with loving 

accord, 
Had risen and sang to the praise of 

the Lord ! 
Then I thought 'mid that music to 

wander and wait 
For the loved ones, just there by the 

palm at the gate, 
To begin the great life that no Death 

can o'ertake, 
And to dream the great dream that 

no tumult can break ; 
In the broad world of Beauty, of 

flowers and bliss — 
But, alas 1 I awoke where the thorns 

grow in this: 
And the walls of Death's citadel now 

intervene, 
And the grave, like a moat, yawns 

here darkly between : 
But still, through the mists and the 

shadows of night, 
I can follow the stars on those pillars 

of light ; 
And I know the great gates stand 

there open and broad, 
Inviting the way to the City of God. 



THE TKUANT. 

Where is the truant ? This should 
be the place 
Where even now we heard him 
laugh outright, 
To greet the sun, as if he saw the 
face 
Of some bright angel smiling in the 
light. 

Surely the morn hath beckoned him 
away, 
Enticing him with glory from afar : 
Arise ! and we may find him in his 

Shining amid the sweetest flowers 
that are. 



THE MARSEILLAISE. 



53 



His little eyes, so full of bright desires, 
Could not withstand yon orient 
space of flowers ; 
And he hath 'scaped the intervening 
briers, 
The field for bleeding feet which we 
call ours. 

It cannot be he wandered out alone ; 
O, rather that dear friend of many 
charms, 
Who wooed him in each light that 
round us shone, 
Won him at last into his careful 
arms. 

O ! look again, a little further look, 
And weep no tear, unless it be for 
joy, 
Toward yon sweet field, where flower, 
and bird, and brook 
Beguile the glad heart of our truant 
boy. 

Look closer still, until your gaze has 
won 
And passed the barriers overflow- 
ered with stars, — 
Those morning-glories closing in the 
sun, 
And you shall see him through the 
golden bars. 

Watch where he goes, still making 
toward the light, 
Our angel truant gladly nearing 
home, 
While a deep voice from that celestial 
height 
Bids us be calm and suffer him to 
come. 



RUTH. 

SUGGESTED BY A STATUE EXECUTED 
1SY MR. ROGERS IN FLORENCE. 

From age to age, from clime to clime, 
A spirit, bright as her own morn, 

She walks the golden fields of Time, 
As erst amid the yellow corn. 

A form o'er which the hallowed veil 
Of years bequeaths a lovelier light, 



As when the mists of morning sail 
Bound some far isle to make it 
bright. 

And as some reaper 'mid the grain, 
Or binder resting o'er his sheaf, 

Beheld her on the orient plain, 

A passing vision bright and brief; — 

And while he gazed let fall perchance 
The sheaf or sickle from his hand — 

Thus even here, as in a trance, 
Before her kneeling form I stand. 

But not as then she comes and goes 

To live in memory alone ; 
The perfect soul before me glows 

Immortal in the living stone. 

And while upon her face I gaze 
And scan her rarely rounded form, 

The glory of her native days 

Comes floating o'er me soft and 
warm ; — 

Comes floating, till this shadowy place 
Brightens to noontide, and receives 

The breath of that old harvest space, 
With all its sunshine and its 
sheaves ! 



THE MARSEILLAISE. 

I heard, as in a glorious dream, 

A clarion thrill the startled air, 
And saw an answering people stream 

Through every noisy thoroughfare. 
There were the old, whose hairs were 
few, 

Or white with memory of the days 
Of Egypt, Moscow, Waterloo, — 

And now they sang the "Marseil- 
laise!" 

The aged scholar, pale and wan, 

Was there within the marshalled 
line, 
And. jostled by the noisy van, 

The poet with his voice divine : — 
No more could tomes the sage beguile ; 

The bard no longer wooed tbe praise 
That dribbles from a monarch's smile, 

For now they sang the "Marseil- 
laise!" 



54 



LYRIC POEMS. 



And there were matrons, who of yore 

Had wept a son or husband slain, 
Or chanted for their Emperor 

A long and loud triumphal strain : — 
Their woe inspired the song no 
more, 
Nor yet Napoleon's crown of hays, 
Which rankly sprang from fields of 
gore, 
For now they sang the "Marseil- 
laise!" 

The peasants, from their hills of vines, 

Came streaming to the open plains ; 
No more they bore their tax of wines 

To stagnate in a tyrant's veins ; 
France needed not the purple flood 

To set her heart and brain ablaze, — 
A wilder wine was in her blood, 

For now she sang the "Marseil- 
laise!" 

The Bourbons' throne was trampled 
down, 
And France no longer knelt ; but 
now, 
Struck with a patriot's hand the 
crown 
From off the Orleans' dotard 
brow ; — 
Eeleased from slavery and tears, 
She rose and sang fair Freedom's 
praise, 
Till far along the future years 

I heard the swelling "Marseil- 
laise!" 



THE OLD YEAE. 

Lo, now, when dark December's 
gathering storm 
With heavy wing o'ershadows 
many a heart, 
Beside us the old year, with mailed 
form , 
Stands waiting to depart. 

Weighed down as with a ponderous 
tale of woe, 
How dim his eyes, how wan his 
cheeks appear ! 
Like Denmark's spectre king, with 
motion slow 
He beckons the young year. 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 

Long have I gazed upon all lovely 
things, 
Until my soul was melted into 
song,— 

Melted with love, till from its thou- 
sand springs 
The stream of adoration, swift and 
strong, 

Swept in its ardor, drowning brain 
and tongue, 

Till what I most would say was borne 
away unsung. 

The brook is silent when it mirrors 

most 
Whate'er is grand or beautiful 

above ; 
The billow which would woo the 

flowery coast 
Dies in the first expression of its 

love ; 
And could the bard consign to living 

breath 
Feelings too deep for thought, the 

utterance were death ! 

The starless heavens at noon are a 
delight ; 
The clouds a wonder in their vary- 
ing play, 

And beautiful when from their 
mountainous height 
The lightning's hand illumes the 
wall of day : — 

The noisy storm bursts down, and 
passing brings 

The rainbow poised in air on unsub- 
stantial wings. 

But most I love the melancholy 
night — 
When with fixed gaze I single out 
a star, 

A feeling floods me with a tender 
light— 
A sense of an existence from afar, 

A life in other spheres of love and 
bliss, 

Communion of true souls — a loneli- 
ness in this ! 

There is a sadness in the midnight 
sky— 
An answering fulness in the heart 
and brain, 



BALBOA. 



55 



Which tells the spirit's vain attempt 
to fly, 
And occupy those distant worlds 
again. 

At such an hour Death's were a loving 
trust, 

If life could then depart in its con- 
tempt of dust. 

It may be that this deep and longing 
sense 
Is but the prophecy of life to come ; 
It may be that the soul in going 
hence 
May find in some bright star its 
promised home ; 
And that the Eden lost forever here 
Smiles welcome to me now from yon 
suspended sphere. 

There is a wisdom in the light of stars, 
A worldless lore which summons 

me away ; 
This ignorance belongs to earth, which 

bars 
The spirit in these darkened walls 

of clay, 
And stifles all the soul's aspiring 

breath ; — 
True knowledge only dawns within 

the gates of Death. 

Imprisoned thus, why fear we then 

to meet 
The angel who shall ope the 

dungeon door, 
And break these galling fetters from 

our feet, 
To lead us up from Time's benighted 

shore ? 
Is it for love of this dark cell of 

dust, 
"Which, tenantless, awakes but horror 

and disgust ? 

Long have I mused upon all lovely 

things: 
But thou, oh Death ! art lovelier 

than all ; 
Thou sheddest from thy recompensing 

wings 
A glory which is hidden by the 

pall — 
The excess of radiance falling from 

thy plume 
Throws from the gates of Time a 

shadow on the tomb. 



SONG OF THE SEKF. 

I know a lofty lady, 

And she is wondrous fair ; 
She hath wrought my soul to music 

As the leaves are wrought by air ; 
And like the air that wakes 

The foliage into play, 
She feels no thrill of all she makes 

When she has passed away. 

I know a lofty lady 

Who seldom looks on me, 
Or when she smiles, her smile is like 

The moon's upon the sea. 
As proudly and serene 

She shines from her domain, 
Till my spirit heaves beneath her 
mien, 

And floods my aching brain. 

I know a lofty lady : — 

But I would not wake her scorn 
By telling all the love I bear, 

For I am lowly born ; 
So low, and she so high — 

And the space between us spread 
Makes me but as the weeds that lie 

Beneath her stately tread. 



BALBOA. 

From San Domingo's crowded wharf 

Fernandez' vessel bore, 
To seek in unknown lands afar 

The Indian's golden ore. 

And hid among the freighted casks, 
Where none might see or know, 

Was one of Spain's immortal men, 
Three hundred years ago ! 

But when the fading town and land 
Had dropped below the sea, 

He met the captain face to face, 
And not a fear had he ! 

"What villain thou?" Fernandez 
cried, 

" And wherefore serve us so ?" 
" To be thy follower," he replied, 

Three hundred years ago. 



56 



LYRIC POEMS. 



He wore a manly form and face, 

A courage firm and bold, 
His words fell on his comrades' hearts, 

Like precious drops of gold. 

They saw not his ambitious soul ; 

He spoke it not — for lo ! 
He stood among the common ranks, 

Three hundred years ago. 

But when Fernandez' vessel lay 

At golden Darien, 
A murmur, born of discontent, 

Grew loud among the men : 

And with the word there came the 
act ; 

And with the sudden blow 
They raised Balboa from the ranks, 

Three hundred years ago. 

And while he took command beneath 

The banner of his lord, 
A mighty purpose grasped his soul, 

As he had grasped the sword. 

He saw the mountain's fair blue height 
Whence golden waters flow ; 

Then with his men he scaled the crags, 
Three hundred years ago. 

He led them up through tangled 
brakes, 
The rivulet's sliding bed, 
And through the storm of poisoned 
darts 
From many an ambush shed. 

He gained the turret crag — alone — 

And wept ! to see below, 
An ocean, boundless and unknown, 

Three hundred years ago. 

And while he raised upon that height 

The banner of his lord, 
The mighty purpose grasped him still, 

As still he grasped his sword. 

Then down he rushed with all his 
men, 

As headlong rivers flow, 
And plunged breast-deep into the sea, 

Three hundred years ago. 

And while he held above his head 
The conquering flag of Spain, 



He waved his gleaming sword, and 
smote 
The waters of the main : 

For Kome ! for Leon ! and Castile I 
Thrice gave the cleaving blow ; 

And thus Balboa claimed the sea, 
Three hundred years ago. 



LABOE. 

" Labor, labor !" sounds the anvil, 
"Labor, labor, until death !" 

And the file, with voice discordant, 
" Labor, endless lab'or !" saith. 

While the bellows to the embers 
Speak of labor in each breath. 

" Labor, labor !" in the harvest, 
Saith the whetting of the scythe, 

And the mill-wheel tells of labor 
Under waters falling blithe ; 

"Labor, labor!" groan the mill- 
stones, 
To the bands that whirl and writhe. 

And the woodman tells of labor, 
In his echo-waking blows ; 

In the forest, in the cabin, 

'Tis the dearest word he knows. 

" Labor, labor !" saith the spirit, 
And with labor comes repose. 

" Labor !" saith the loaded wagon, 
Moving toward the distant mart. 

" Labor !" groans the heavy steamer, 
As she cleaves the waves apart. 

Beating like that iron engine, 
" Labor, labor !" cries the heart. 

Yes, the heart of man cries "labor!" 
While it labors in the breast. 

But the Ancient and Eternal, 

In the Word which He hath blest, 

Sayeth, " Six days shalt thou labor, 
On the seventh thou shalt rest !" 

Then how beautiful at evening, 
When the toilsome week is done, 

To behold the blacksmith's anvil 
Die in darkness with the sun ; 

And to think the doors of labor 
Are all closing up like one. 



THE WITHERING LEAVES. 



57 



THE WINDY SIGHT. 

Alow and aloof, 
Over the roof, 
How the midnight tempests howl ! 
With a dreary voice, like the dismal 

tune 
Of wolves that hay at the desert 
moon ; — 
Or whistle and shriek 
Through limbs that creak, 
"Tu-who! tu-whit!" 
They cry and flit, 
" Tu-whit \ tu-who V 1 like the solemn 
owl ! 

Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof, 
Sweep the moaning winds amain, 

And wildly dash 

The elm and ash, 
Clattering on the window-sash, 

With a clatter and patter, 

Like hail and rain 

That wellnigh shatter 

The dusky pane ! 

Alow and aloof, 
Over the roof, 
How the tempests swell and roar ! 
Though no foot is astir, 
Though the cat and the cur 
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 
There are feet of air 
On every stair ! 
Through every hall — 
Through each gusty door, 
There's a jostle and bustle, 
With a silken rustle, 
Like the meeting of guests at a fes- 
tival ! 

Alow and aloof, 
Over the roof, 
How the stormy tempests swell ! 
And make the vane 
On the spire complain — 
They heave at the steeple with might 
and main, 
And burst and sweep 
Into the belfry, on the bell ! 
They smite it so hard, and they smite 
it so well, 
That the sexton tosses his arms in 
sleep, 
And dreams he is ringing a funeral 
knell ! 



A DIEGE FOE A DEAD BIED. 

The cage hangs at the window, 
There's the sunshine on the sill ; 

But where the form and where the 
voice 
That never till now were still ? 

The sweet voice hath departed 
From its feather} 7 home of gold, 

The little form of yellow dust 
Lies motionless and cold ! 

Oh, where amid the azure 
Hath thy sweet spirit fled? 

I hold my breath and think I hear 
Its music overhead. 

Death has not hushed thy spirit, 
Its joy shall vanish never ; 

The slightest thrill of pleasure born 
Lives on and lives forever ! 

Throughout the gloomy winter 
Thy soul shed joy in ours, 

As it told us of the summer-time 
Amid the land of flowers. 

But now thy songs are silent, 
Except what memory brings ; 

For thou hast folded death within 
The glory of thy wings ! 

And here thy resting-place shall be 
Beneath the garden-bower ; 

A bush shall be thy monument, 
Thy epitaph a flower ! 



THE WITHEEING LEAVES. 

The summer is gone and the autumn 

is here, 
And the flowers are strewing their 

earthly bier ; 
A dreary mist o'er the woodland 

swims, 
While rattle the nuts from the windy 

limbs : 
From bough to bough the squirrels 

run 
At the noise of the hunter's echoing 

gun, 
And the partridge flies where my foot- 
step heaves 
The rustling drifts of the withering 

leaves. 



58 



LYRIC POEMS. 



The flocks pursue their southern 

flight- 
Some all the day and some all night ! 
And up from the wooded marshes 

come 
The sounds of the pheasant's feathery 

drum. 
On the highest bough the mourner 

crow 
Sits in his funeral suit of woe : 
All nature mourns — and my spirit 

grieves 
At the noise of my feet in the wither- 
ing leaves. 

Oh] I sigh for the days that have 

passed away, 
"When my life, like the year, had its 

season of May ; 
When the world was all sunshine and 

beauty and truth, 
And the dew bathed my feet in the 

valley of youth ! 
Then my heart felt its wings, and 

no bird of the sky 
Sang over the flowers more joyous 

than I. 
But Youth is a fable, and Beauty 

deceives ; — 
For my footsteps are loud in the 

withering leaves. 

And I sigh for the time when the 

reapers at morn 
Came down from the hill at the sound 

of the horn : 
Or when, dragging the rake, I fol- 
lowed them out 
"While they tossed the light sheaves 

with their laughter about ; 
Through the field, with boy-daring, 

barefooted I ran ; 
But the stubbles foreshadowed the 

path of the man. 
Now the uplands of life lie all barren 

of sheaves — 
While my footsteps are loud in the 

withering leaves ! 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

Within his sober realm of leafless 
trees 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy 



Like some tanned reaper in his hour 
of ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown 
and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their 
hazy hills 
O'er the dim waters widening in 
the vales, 
Sent down the air a greeting to the 
mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate 
flails. 

All sights were mellowed, and all 

sounds subdued, 

i hills seemed fa] 

streams sang low, 
As in a dream** the distant woodman 

hewed 
His winter lqg with many a muffled 

blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed 
in gold, 
Their banners bright with every 
martial hue, 
Now stood, like some sad beaten host 
of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest 
blue. 

On slumbrous wings the vulture held 
his flight ; 
The dove scarce heard his sighing 
mate's complaint ; 
And like a star slow drowning in the 
light, 
The village, church-vane seemed to 
pale and faint. 

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side 
crew — 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than 
before, — 
Silent till some replying warder blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard 
no more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm's 
tall crest, 
Made garrulous trouble round her 
unfledged young, 
And where the oriole hung her sway- 
ing nest, 
By every light wind like a censer 
swung : — 



THE PILGRIM TO THE LAND OF SONG. 



59 



"Where sang the noisy masons of the 
eaves, 
The busy swallows, circling ever 
near, 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind be- 
lieves, 
An early harvest and a plenteous 
year ;— 

Where every bird which charmed the 
vernal feast, 
Shook the sweet slumber from its 
wings at morn, 
To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
All now was songless, empty, and 
forlorn. . 

Alone from out the stubble piped the 
quail, 
And croaked the crow through all 
the dreamy gloom ; 
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the 
vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage 
loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the 
bowers ; 
The spiders wove their thin shrouds 
night by night ; 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of 
flowers, 
Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless 
out of sight. 

Amid all this, in this most cheerless 
air, 
And where the woodbine shed upon 
the porch 
Its crimson leaves, as if the Year 
stood there 
Firing the floor with his inverted 
torch ; — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 
The white-haired matron, with mo- 
notonous tread, 
Plied the swift wheel, and, with her 
joyless mien, 
Sat, like a Fate, and watched the 
flying thread. 

She had known Sorrow, — he had 
walked with her, 
Oft supped and broke the bitter 
ashen crust ; 



And in the dead leaves still she heard 
the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the 
dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with 
summer bloom, 
Her country summoned and she 
gave her all ; 
And twice W T ar bowed to her his sable 
plume — 
Regave the swords to rust upon her 
wall. 

Eegave the swords, — but not the hand 
that drew 
And struck for Liberty its dying 
blow, 
Nor him who, to his sire and country 
true, 
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading 
foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel 
went on, 
Like the low murmur of a hive at 
noon ; 
Long, but not loud, the memory of 
the gone 
Breathed through her lips a sad and 
tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped — her 
head was bowed ; 
Life dropped the distaff through 
his hands serene, — 
And loving neighbors smoothed her 
careful shroud, 
"While Death and Winter closed 
the autumn scene. 



THE PILGRIM TO THE LAND 
OF SONG. 

The dews are dry upon my sandal- 
shoon 
Which bathed them on the foreign 
hills of song, 
And now beneath the white and sultry 
noon 
They print the dust which they 
may wear too long. 



60 LYRIC POEMS. 


The flowers by delicate fingers wove 


Who, in their glowing robes of death- 


at morn 


less thought, 


Around my pilgrim staff have paled 
and died, 


Strode knee-deep through Parnas- 


sian flowers and dew. 


Or dropped into the sand, and lie for- 




lorn, 


The hot sands gleam around me, and 


Mute orphans of the airy mountain- 


I thirst,— 


side. 


The wayside springs have sunk into 




themselves ; 


The mingled music in the early 


And even the little blossoms which 


gale, 


they nursed 


Of bees and birds, and maidens 


Have vanished from their side, like 


among flowers, 


faithless elves. 


The brooks, like shepherds, piping 




down the vale, 


Whence lead the sandy courses of 


For these my heart remounts the 


these rills ? 


morning hours. 


Do they foretell a mightier stream 




at hand, 


Oh that I might reclimb the dewy 


With voice triumphant, worthy of 


dawn, 


these hills ? 


And with the stars sit down by 


W T here are thy rivers, oh, my native 


Castalie, 


land? 


And be once more within the shade 




withdrawn, 


A few brave souls have sparkled into 


Mantled with music and with Poesy. 


sight, 




With living flashes of celestial art ; 


Thou blessed bird between me and 


Souls who might flood the world with 


the heaven, 


new delight, 


Thou winged censer, swinging 


Keep sealed the deepest fountains 


through the air 


of the heart. 


With incense of pure song, — how hast 




thou driven 


Oh for a cloud to oversweep the 


One to the past, that may not linger 


West, 


there ! 


And with a deluge burst these 




deeper springs, — 


Oh for one wild annihilating hour, 


A voiceful cloud, with grandeur in 


Spent with the minstrels of a loftier 


its breast, 


time ; 


And lightning on its far-impending 


Those giants among bards, whose high 


wings. 


songs tower 




Full many a rood o'er all our new 


Oh for one mighty heart and fearless 


sublime. 


hand ! 




For such, methinks, my country, is 


Oh for an hour with Chaucer, the 


thy due, — 


divine, 


The embodied spirit of his forest 


The morning star of English song 


land, 


confessed ; 


Who, scorning not the old, shall 


Ushering a day whose slow but sure 


sing the new. 


decline 




Fades with a fitful glimmering in 


Here will I rest until the day declines, 


the west. 


A voiceless pilgrim toward the land 




of song ; 


Oh for that rare auroral time, which 


And, like a sentinel, catch the herald 


brought 


signs 


The light of Shakespeare, and the 


Of him whose coming hath been 


glorious few, 


stayed too long. 



THE AWAKENING YEAR. 



Gl 



A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD 
YEAR. 



Come hither, love, come hither, 

And sit you down by me ; 
And hither run, my little one, 

And climb upon my knee. 
But bring the flagon first, my love, 

And fill to friends and foes, 
And let the old year dash his beard 

With wine before he goes. 



Oh, do you not remember 

The night we let him in, 
The creaking signs, the windy blinds, 

The universal din ; — 
The melancholy sounds which bade 

The poor old year adieu ; 
The sudden clamor and the bells 

That welcomed in the new ? 
He brought to us a world of hope 

Beneath his robe of snows : — 
Then let the old year dash his beard 

With wine before he °;oes. 



Oh, then the year was young and fair, 

And loved all joyful things ; 
And under his bright mantle hid 

The warning of his wings. 
And you remember how the Spring 

Beguiled him to her bowers ; — 
How Summer next exalted him 

Unto her throne of flowers ; — 
And how the reaper, Autumn, 
crowned 

Him 'mid the sheaves and shocks, — 
You still may see the tangled straws 

In his disordered locks. 
The yellow wheat, the crimson leaves, 

With purple grapes, were there ; 
Till, Bacchus-like, he wore the proof 

Of plenty 'mid his hair — 
A proof that wooes in harvest homes 

Brown Labor to repose : — 
Then let the old year dash his beard 

With wine before he goes. 

IV. 

But soon the Winter came and took 
His glory quite away : 



A frosty rime o'erspread his chin, 

And all his hair went gray ; 
His crown has fallen to his feet, 

And withers where he stands, 
While some invisible horror shakes 

The old man by the hands. 
Oh, woo him from his cloud of grief 

And from his dream of woes ; 
And bid the old year dash his beard 

With wine before he goes. 



For he hath brought us some new 
friends, 

And made the old more dear, 
And shown how love may constant 
prove, 

And friendship be sincere. 
Though it may be some venomed tooth 

Hath wrought against the file ; 
And though perchance a Janus' face 

Hath cursed us with its smile : — 
Come, fill the goblet till its rim 

With Lethe overflows ; 
The year shall drown their memory 

With wine before he goes. 

VI. 

But hark ! a music nears and nears, — 

As if the singing stars 
Were driving closer to the earth 

In their triumphal cars ! 
And hark ! the sudden pealing crash 

'Of one who will not wait, 
But flings into the ringing dark 

Old Winter's crystal gate. 
A sigh is on the midnight air, — 

A ghost is on the lawn, — 
The broken goblet strews the floor, — 

The poor old year is gone 1 



THE AWAKENING YEAR. 

The bluebirds and the violets 

Are with us once again, 
And promises of summer spot 

The hill-side and the plain. 

The clouds around the mountain-tops 

Are riding on the breeze, 
Their trailing azure trains of mist 

Are tangled in the trees. 



G 



62 LYRIC 


POEMS. 


The snow-drifts, which have lain so 


And you shall drain as I have drained 


long, 


The golden goblet of your song, 


Haunting the hidden nooks, 


Till in my heart a pleasure reigned 


Like guilty ghosts have slipped away, 


Like Bacchus 'mid his wreathed 


Unseen, into the brooks. 


throng. 


The streams are fed with generous 


II. 


rains, 
They drink the wayside springs, 


And blame me not, that while she 


And nutter down from crag to crag 


sings 


Upon their foamy wings. 


My Muse not always strives to 




soar, — 


Through all the long wet nights they 


If, folding her o'erwearied wings, 


brawl, 


She warbles when her flight is o'er. 


By mountain homes remote, 




Till woodmen in their sleep behold 


It may be that more oft than well 


Their ample rafts afloat. 


I've woke the melancholy lyre ; 




Then frown not if I break the spell 


The lazy wheel, that hung so dry 


And touch at times a lighter wire. 


Above the idle stream, 




"Whirls wildly in the misty dark, 


If it has been my wont to quaff 


And through the miller's dream. 


And drain the chalice' darker • 




tide, 


Loud torrent unto torrent calls, 


W x hat marvel, if I stop and laugh 


Till at the mountain's feet, 


To see the satyrs on its side ? 


Flashing afar their spectral light, 




The noisy waters meet. 




They meet, and through the lowlands 


in. 


sweep, 


What though you bid me hoard my 


Toward briny bay and lake, 


hours, 


Proclaiming to the distant towns, 


And say you see my life-star pale, 


" The country is awake !" 


Have I not walked amid the flowers 




That bloom in the enchanted vale ? 




Though I had, on a lotus bed, 




Dreamed the wild dreams that few 


PROLOGUE TO AN UNPUB- 


may dare, 


LISHED SERIO-COMIC POEM. 


Till the o'ershadowing laurel shed 




Its leaves of poison on my hair ; 


INSCRIBED TO GEORGE H. BOKER. 






I do believe the gods are just, — 


I. 


They will not break the unfinished 




chord, 


Dear friend, while now the dews are 


Nor dash the goblet in the dust 


shed 


Until its latest draught be poured. 


Along the vintage-crowned Rhine; 




And da}^ departs with purple tread, 




Eresh dripping from the land of 


IV. 


wine : 






Then fill, dear friend, again immerse 


Here, o'er a flask of Rudesheim, 


The lip that shall approve the 


Your shade with me shall drain the 


rhyme ; 


bowl, 


A richer beauty gilds the verse 


"While in this passing cup of rh} T me 


When seen through cups of Rudes- 


I pour the fulness of my soul. 


heim. 



VENICE. 



63 



And if within my tuneful task 
I wake too oft the mournful note, 

Then pour again the golden flask, 
For it has laughter in its throat. 

And while I deem you sit and quaff, 
I shall no longer be alone, 

Nor think my dusty pack and staff 
My sole companions in Cologne. 



VENICE. 



Night on the Adriatic, night ! 

And like a mirage of the plain, 
With all her marvellous domes of 
light, 

Pale Venice looms along the main. 

No sound from the receding shore, — 
No sound from all the broad lagoon, 

Save where the light and springing oar 
Brightens our track beneath the 
moon : — 

Or save where yon high campanile 
Gives to the listening sea its chime ; 

Or where those dusky giants wheel 
And smite the ringing helm of Time. 

'Tis past, — and Venice drops to rest ; 

Alas ! hers is a sad repose, 
While in her brain and on her breast 

Tramples the vision of her foes. 

Erewhile from her sad dream of pain 

She rose upon her native flood, 
And struggled with the Tyrant's 
chain, 
Till every link was stained with 
blood. 

The Austrian pirate, wounded, 

spurned, 

Fled howling to thesheltering shore, 

But, gathering all his crew, returned 

And bound the Ocean Queen once 

more. 

'Tis past, — and Venice prostrate lies, — 

And, snarling round her couch of 

woes, 

T^ a watch-dogs, with the jealous eyes, 

Scowl where the stranger comes or 

goes. 



ii. 



Lo ! here awhile suspend the oar ; 

Rest in the Mocenigo's shade, 
For Genius hath within this door 

His charmed, though transient, 
dwelling made. 

Somewhat of " Harold's" spirit yet, 
Methinks, still lights these crum- 
bling halls ; 

For where the flame of song is set 
It burns, though all the temple falls. 

Oh, tell me not those days were given 
To Passion and her pampered brood ; 

Or that the eagle stoops from heaven 
To dye his talons deep in blood. 

I hear alone his deathless strain 
From sacred inspiration won, 

As I would only watch again 
The eas-le when he nears the sun. 



in. 

Oh, would some friend were near me 
now, 
Some friend well tried and cherished 
long, 
To share the scene ; — but chiefly thou, 
Sole source and object of my song. 

By Olivola's dome and tower, 

What joy to clasp thy hand in mine, 
While through my heart this sacred 
hour 
Thy voice should melt like mellow 
wine. 

What time or place so fit as this 
To bid the gondolier withhold, 

And dream through one soft age of 
bliss 
The olden story, never old ? 

The domes suspended in the sky 
Swim all above me broad and fair; 

And in the wave their shadows lie, — 
Twin phantoms of the sea and air. 

O'er all the scene a halo plays, 
Slow fading, but how lovely yet; 

For here the brightness of past days 
Still lingers, though the sun is set. 



64 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Oft in my bright and boyish hours 
1 lived in dreams what now I live, 

And saw these palaces and towers 
In all the light romance can give. 

They rose along my native stream, 
They charmed the lakelet in the 
glen ; 
But in this hour the waking dream 
More frail and dream-like seems 
than then. 

A matchless scene, a matchless night, 
A tide below, a moon above ; 

An hour for music and delight, 
For gliding gondolas and love ! 

But here, alas ! you hark in vain, — 
When Venice fell her music died ; 

And voiceless as a funeral train, 
The blackened barges swim the tide. 

The harp, which Tasso loved to wake, 
Hangs on the willow where it sleeps, 

And while the light strings sigh or 
break, 
Pale Venice by the water weeps. 



'Tis past, — and weary droops the wing 
That thus hath borne me idly on ; 

The thoughts I have essayed to sing 
Are but as bubbles touched and 
gone. 

But, Venice, cold his soul must be, 
Who, looking on thy beauty, hears 

The story of thy wrongs, if he 

Is moved to neither song nor tears. 

To glide by temples fair and proud. 
Between deserted marble walls, 

Or see the hireling foeman crowd 
Kough-shod her noblest palace 
halls ; 

To know her left to Vandal foes 
Until her nest be robbed and gone, — 

To see her bleeding breast, which 
shows 
How dies the Adriatic swan ; — 

To know that all her wings are shorn ; 

That Fate has written her decree, 
That soon the nations here shall mourn 

The lone Palmyra of the sea ; — 



Where waved her vassal flags of yore 
By valor in the Orient won ; 

To see the Austrian vulture soar, 
A blot against the morning sun ; — 

To hear a rough and foreign speech 
Commanding the old ocean mart, — 

Are mournful sights and sounds that 
reach, 
And wake to pity, all the heart. 



NIGHTFALL. 

IN MEMORY OF A POET. 

I saw in the silent afternoon 
The overladen sun go down ; 

While, in the opposing sky, the moon, 
Between the steeples of the town, 

Went upward, like a golden scale, 
Outweighed by that which sank 
beyond ; 

And over the river, and over the vale, 
With odors from the lily-pond, 

The purple vapors calmly swung ; 

And, gathering in the twilight 
trees, 
The many vesper minstrels sung 

Their plaintive mid-day memories, 

Till, one by one, they dropped away 
From music into slumber deep ; 

And now the very Avoodlands lay 
Folding their shadowy wings in 
sleep. 

Oh, Peace ! that like a vesper psalm 
Hallows the daylight at its close ; 

Oh, Sleep ! that like the vapor's calm 
Mantles the spirit in repose, — 

Through all the twilight falling dim, 
Through all the song which passed 
away, 

Ye did not stoop your wings to him 
Whose shallop on the river lay 

Without an oar, without a helm ; — 
His great soul in his marvellous eyes 

Gazing on from realm to realm 
Through all the world of mysteries ! 



SYLVIA; OE, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 



65 



L'ENVOL 

I bring the flower you asked of me, 
A simple bloom, nor bright nor 
rare, 

But like a star its light will be 
Within the darkness of your hair. 

It grew not in those guarded bowers 
"Where rustling fountains sift their 
spray. 

But gladly drank the common showers 
Of dew beside the dusty way. 

It may be in its humble sphere 
It cheered the pilgrim of the road, 

And shed as blest an alms as e'er 
The generous hand of Wealth be- j 
stowed. 



Or though, save mine, it met no eye, 
But secretly looked up and grew, 

And from the loving air and sky 
Its little store of beauty drew, 

And though it breathed its small per- 
fumes 

So low they did not woo the bee, — 
Exalted, how it shines and blooms, 

Above all flowers, since worn by thee. 

And thus the song you bade me sing 
May be a rude and artless lay, 

And yet it grew a sacred thing 
To bless me on Life's dusty way. 

And unto this, my humble strain, 
How much of beauty shall belong, 

If thou wilt in thy memory deign 
To wear my simple flower of song ! 



SYLVIA; OE, THE LAST SHEPHEED. 

AX ECLOGUE. 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



TO 

HENRY C. TOWXSEXD, ESQ. 

To you, my friend, whose youthful feet have known 
The same bright hills and valleys as my own ; 
Whose eye learned beauty from the self-same scene, 
Which, still remembered, keeps our pathways green : 
From the same minstrel-stream and poet-birds 
Learned what I oft would fain recall in words: — 
To you I bring this handful of wild flowers, 
By memory plucked from those dear fields of ours; 
And when their freshness and their perfume die, 
On friendship's shrine still let them fondly lie. 



PRELUDE. 

THE MERRY MOWERS. 

"Here 'mid the clover's crimson 
realm 
"We'll rest us through the glowing 
noon, 
Beneath this broad and liberal elm, 
Slow nodding to his hundredth 
June. 



"On this low branch our scythes shall 
sway, 
Fresh reeking from the field in 
bloom ; 
"While, breathing o'er the new-mown 
hay, 
The air shall fan us with perfume. 

" And here the cottage maid shall 
spread 
The viands on the stainless cloth, — 



6G 



SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 



The golden prints, the snow-white 
bread, 
The chilly pitcher crowned with 
froth. 

" And you, fair youth, whose shep- 
herd look 
Brings visions of the pastoral 
time, — 
Your hay-fork shouldered like a 
crook, 
Your speech the natural voice of 
rhyme, — 

" Although the world is far too ripe 
To hark, — or, hearkening, would 
disdain, — 

Come, pour along your fancied pipe 
The music of some rustic strain. 

" We'll listen as we list the birds, — 
And, being pleased, will hold it 
wise ; 

And deem we sit 'mid flocks and herds 
Beneath the far Arcadian skies." 

Thus spake the mowers ; while the 
maid, 

The fairest daughter of the realm, 
Stood twining in the happy shade 

A wreath of mingled oak and elm. 

And this, with acorns interwound, 
And violets inlaid with care, 

Fame's temporary priestess bound 
In freshness round her druid hair. 

The breeze with sudden pleasure 
played, 
And, dancing in from bough to 
bough, 
Let one slant sunbeam down, which 
stayed 
A moment on the crowned brow. 

The birds, as with a new-born thrill, 
Sang as they only sing at morn, 

While through the noon from hill to 
hill 
Echoed the winding harvest-horn. 

With upturned face and lips apart, 
He mused a little, but not long ; 

For clustered in his boundless heart 
Sang all the morning stars of 
sons:. 



THE ECLOGUE. 



In middle of a noble space, 

Of antique wood and boundless plain, 
Queen Sylvia, regent of ail grace, 
Held long-descended reign. 

The diadem her forehead wore 

Was her bright hair, a golden band ; 
And she, as sceptre, ever bore 
A distaff in her hand. 

In russet train, with rustling tread, 
She walked like morning, dewy- 
eyed, 
And, like Saint Agnes, ever led 
A white lamb at her side. 

And she to all the flowery land 

Was dear as are the summer skies ; 
And round her waving mulberry 
wand 
Swarmed all the butterflies. 

Queen was she of the flaxen skein, 
And empress of the snowy fleece, 
And o'er the silkworm's small domain 
Held guard in days of peace. 



To own her sway the woods were 
proud, 
The solemn forest, wreathed and 
old; 
To her the plumed harvests bowed 
Their rustling ranks of gold. 

Mantled in majesty complete, 

She walked among her flocks and 
herds ; 
Where'er she moved, with voices 
sweet, 
Sang all her laureate birds. 

All happy sounds waved softly near, 
With perfume from the fields of 
dew ; 
From every hill, bold chanticleer 
His silver clarion blew. 

The bees her honey-harvest reaped. 
The fields were murmurous with 
their glee ; 




YLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 

"And l he loiliitij dmj is done.' 1 '' 



SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 



67 



And, loyal to her hives, they heaped 
Her waxen treasury. 

All pleasures round her loved to 
press, 
To sing their sweetest madrigals ; — 
She never knew the weariness 

Which dwells in grander halls. 



in. 



What time came in the welcome 
spring, 
The happy maiden looked ahroad, 
And saw her lover gayly fling 
The flax athwart the sod. 

Hither and thither the yellow seed 
Young Leon sprinkled o'er the 
plain, 
As a farmer to his feathery breed 
Full hands of golden grain. 

As o'er the yielding mouldhe swayed, 
He whistled to his measured tread 
A happy tune ; for he saw the maid 
Spinning the future thread, 

Or saw the shuttle in her room 

Fly, like a bird, from hand to 
hand ; 

And then his arm, as at a loom, 
Swung wider o'er the land. 

He wondered what the woof would 
be, — 

Or for the poor, or for the proud ? 
A bridal garment fluttering free? 

Or formal winding-shroud? 



IV. 



Then May recrossed the southern 
hill — 
Her heralds thronged the elms and 
eaves ; 
And Nature, with a sudden thrill, 
Burst all her buds to leaves. 

Loud o'er the slope a streamlet flung 
Fresh music from its mountain 
springs, 
As if a thousand birds there sung 
And flashed their azure wings. 



"Flow on," the maiden sang, "and 
whirl, 
Sweet stream, your music o'er the 
hill, 
And touch with your light foot of pearl 
The wheel of yonder mill." 

It touched the wheel, and in the vale 
Died from the ear and passed from 
view, — 
Like a singing bird that is seen to sail 
Into the distant blue ; — 

Died where the river shone below, 
Where white sails through the 
vapor glowed, 
Like great archangels moving slow 
On some celestial road. 



v, 



How sweet it is when twilight wakes 

A many-voiced eve in May, — 
When Sylvia's western casement takes 
The farewell flame of day : 

When cattle from the upland lead 
Or drive their lengthening shadows 
home ; 
Whilebringing from the odorous mead 
Deep pails of snowy foam, 

The milkmaid sings, and, while she 
stoops, 
Her hands keep time; the night- 
hawk's wail 
Pierces the twilight, till he swoops 
And mocks the sounding pail. 

Then sings the robin, he who wears 

A sunset memory on his breast, 
Pouring his vesper hymns and prayers 
To the red shrine of the west. 

Deep in the grove the woodland sprites 

Start into frequent music brief; 
And there the whippoorwill recites 
The ballad of his grief. 

The ploughs turn home ; the anvils 

cease ; 

The forge has faded with the sun ; 

The heart of the loom is soothed to 

peace, 

And the toiling day is done. 



68 



SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 



A lover's heart hath no repose ; 
'Tis ever thundering in his ear 
The story of his joys and woes, — 
The light remote, the shadow 
near. 

And Leon, penning his fleecy stock, 

Felt hope as painful as despair, 
"While one by one heaven's starry 
flock 
Came up the fields of air. 

True shepherd, — like the men of 
old- 
He knew to call each as it came ; 
And, as his flock leaped in the fold, 
Each had a starry name. 

There, clustered close in slumbrous 
peace, 
He gazed on them with shepherd 
pride, 
And saw each deep and pillowy fleece 
Through Sylvia's soft hands 
glide. 

In that still hour, where none might 
mark, 
He leaned against the shadowy bars ; 
Soft tearlight blurred the deepening 
dark 
And doubled all the stars. 

And, starlike, through the valley dim 
The tapers shot their guiding rays; 
But one there was which seemed to him 
To set the night ablaze. 

To his impatient feet it flowed, 

A stream of gold along the sod ; 
Then like the road to glory glowed 
The love-lit path he trod ! 

Til. 

Out of her tent, as one afraid, 

The moon along the purple field 
Stole like an oriental maid, 

Her beauty half concealed. 

And, peering with her vestal torch 

Between the vines at Sylvia's door, 
She saw two shadows in the porch 
Pass and repass the floor. 



On the far hill the dreary hound 
Saddened the evening with his 
howl ; 
In the near grove — a shuddering 
sound — 
Echoed the ominous owl. 

Three times, as at a robber band, 
The guardian mastiff leaped his 
chain ; 
Three times the hand in Leon's 
hand 
Grew chill and shook with pain. 

And Sylvia said, " These, Leon, these 
Are the dismal sounds which three 
nights past 
Came herald to the mysteries 
Of dreams too sad to last. 



" First of the mournful sights, I 
saw 
Our flocks fly bleating from a hound, 
And many a one his savage jaw 

Dragged bleeding to the ground. 

" The rest sought shelter in despair, 
And in a brake were robbed and 
torn ; 
The cruel hound had an ally there 
In every brier and thorn. 

"In nightmare chains my feet were 
set, 
For I could neither move nor 
scream : 
Oh, Leon, it makes me tremble yet, 
Although 'twas but a dream ! 

" Anon I struggled forth, and took 
From off our mastiff's neck the 
chain ; 
He leaped the gate, he leaped the 
brook, 
And snarled across the plain. 

" Then how they fought ! My sight 

grew dim, 

In straining to the field remote : 

At length he threw that blood-hound 

grim, 

And held him by the throat ! 



SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 



69 



" And then I heard your neighing 
train, — 
Its silver bells rang down the 
breeze, — 
And saw the white arch of your wain 
Between the roadside trees. 

" Announced as by an ocean storm, 

A horseman from the east in ire 
Kode to retrieve his hound: his form 
Was robed in scarlet fire. 

" But when you saw our murdered 
field— 
And saw in midst the struggling 
hounds — 
And him whose sword made threat 
to wield 
Destruction o'er our grounds, — 

''You loosed the best steed of your 
team, 
And seized the weapon nearest 
hand, — 
Then sped the hill and leaped the 
stream, 
And- bade the invader stand. 

" Then came the horrid sight and 
sound : 
At length I saw the foe retreat, 
And swooned for joy ; but waking 
found 
You bleeding at my feet 1 



x. 



" I bore you in ; with my own hand 
I tended you long nights and days ; 
And heard with pride how all the land 
Was ringing with your praise. 

" But when your deepest wounds were 
well, — 
This, Leon, is the saddest part, — 
A lady came with witching spell, 
And claimed you, hand and heart. 

" She came in all her, southern pride ; 
And, though she was as morning 
bright, 
An Afric bondmaid at her side 
Stooped like a starless night. 



"She moved as she were monarch 
born., 
And smiled her sweetest smile on 
you; 
But scorned me with her lofty scorn, 
Until I shrank from view. 

" When you were gone, all hope had 
flown, — 
Grief held to me her bitter crust ; 
My distaff dropped, my loom o'er- 
thrown 
Lay trampled in the dust. 



XI. 



"I know such dreams are empty, 
vain; 
And yet may rest upon the heart, 
Like dullness of a summer rain 
After the clouds depart. 

" And still the dream went on : — each 
hour 
Some new-born wonder filled the 
dream : 
First came the laborers to o'erpower 
And chain our little stream. 

" A giant prison-wall they made ; — 
Our brook, recoiling in her fears, 
Over our meadows wildly strayed, 
And drowned them with her tears. 

"And then they reared a stately 
home, — 
Not one, but many, for this queen ; 
The gleam of tower and spire and 
dome 
Through all the land was seen. 

"And when her orgies swelled the 
breeze, 
Loudly a mile away or more 
Was borne the voice of her revelries, 
The rattle and the roar. 



XII. 

" You grew to her more fond and near, 
And mine no more! Ah, never 
more 
You brought the antlerod forest deer 
And laid it at my door. 



70 



SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 



" And ever round the hall and hearth, 

These branching emblems of the 

chase 

Mocked me with memory of the mirth 

Which once made bright the place. 

" No more 'neath autumn's sun or 
cloud 
You paid to me the pleasing tax 
Of labor at the swingle loud, 
Breaking the brittle flax. 

" No more when winter walked our 
clime 
"We woke the evening-lighted room 
With laugh and song, still keeping 
time 
To whirring wheel or loom. 

" Nor blazed the great logs as of 

yore, 
' Cheered with the cricket's pastoral 
song ; 
The cider and the nuts were o'er, 
And gone the jovial throng. 

"The hearth was basely narrowed 
down ; 
The antlered walls were stripped 
and bare ; 
The oaken floor no more was known, — 
A foreign woof was there. 



XIII. 

" And never more your ringing team 

Made music in our happy dale ; 
Instead, an earthquake winged with 
steam 
Roared through our sundered 
vale. 

" And where yon river seaward runs, 
The white-winged barges ceased to 
roam ; 
Instead, came great leviathans 

Trampling the waves to foam. 

" And there was rushing to and fro, 

As if the nation suddenly 
Made haste to meet some foreign foe 
Impending on the sea. 

" And all this horrid roar and rage — 
The clash of steel and flash of ire — 



Was the giant march of the Conquer- 
ing Age 
Flapping his flags of fire ! 

"He strode the land from east to 
west : — 
Then death in my despair was sweet, 
And soon above my buried breast 
Trampled the world's loud feet. 

" The dreary dream is past and told ; 

But, Leon, swear to still be true, 
Even though with charms a thousand- 
fold 
A queen should smile on you." 

This, Leon swore, — swore still to pa} r 

The fealty he long had borne : — 
The years which followed best can say 
If Leon was forsworn. 



xiv. 

" Forsworn !" The fields all sighed, 
" forsworn !" 
When Sylvia pined intoher shroud ; 
And all the pastures lay forlorn, 
O'ershadowed with a cloud. 

The homesteads wept with childish 
sob, 
" Forsworn 1" and every wheel was 
dumb ; 
The looms were muffled, each low 
throb 
Was like a funeral drum. 

The maidens hid in Maytime grots, 
Their distaffs twined with blossoms 
sweet, 
With pansies and forget-me-nots, 
And laid them at her feet. 

"Forsworn!" they sighed, and 
sprinkled o'er 
Her breast the loveliest flowers of 
May; 
And then these fair pall-bearers bore 
Her gentle dust away. 

" Forsworn !" The grandams moved 
about 
Like useless shadows in their gloom ; 
And oft they brought their distaffs out, 
And sat beside her tomb. 



SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 



71 



" Forsworn !" All nature sighs, " for- 
sworn !'• 
And Sylvia's is a nameless grave ; 
The blossoms which above her mourn 
'Mid tangled grasses wave. 



Proud Leon sits beside his bride, 
His chariot manned by Nubian 
grooms, — 
His lady rustling in the pride 
Of stuffs of foreign looms. 

Secure, important, and serene, 

The master of a wide domain, 
He looks abroad with lordly mien, — 
This once poor shepherd swain. 

You scarce would think, to see him 
now, 
In all his grandeur puffed and full, 
He e'er had guided flock or plough 
In simple, homespun wool. 

The chain of gold is still a chain ; — 
There may be moments he would 

pay 

The bulk of all his marvellous gain 
For what has passed away ! 



CONCLUSION. 

THE MOURNFUL MOWERS. 

Thus sang the shepherd crowned at 
noon, 
And every breast was heaved with 
sighs;— 
Attracted by the tree and tune, 
The winged singers left the skies. 

Close to the minstrel sat the maid ; 

His song had drawn her fondly near : 
Her large and dewy eyes betrayed 

The secret to her bosom dear. 

The factory-people through the fields, 
Pale men and maids and children 
pale, 
Listened, forgetful of the wheels, 
Till the loud summons woke the 
vale. 



And all the mowers rising said, 
" The world has lost its dewy 
prime; 

Alas ! the Golden age is dead, 
And we are of the Iron time ! 

" The wheel and loom have left our 
homes, — 

Our maidens sit with empty hands, 
Or toil beneath yon roaring domes, 

And fill the factory's pallid bands. 

" The fields are swept as by a war, 
Our harvests are no longer blithe ; 

Yonder the iron mower's car 

Comes with his devastating scythe. 

" They lay us waste by fire and 
steel, 

Besiege us to our very doors ; 
Our crops before the driving wheel 

Fall captive to the conquerors. 

j " The pastoral age is dead, is dead ! 
Of all the happy ages chief; 
Let every mower bow his head, 
In token of sincerest grief. 

" And let our brows be thickly bound 

With every saddest flower that 

blows ; 

And all our scythes be deeply wound 

With every mournful leaf that 

grows." 

Thus sang the mowers ; and they 
said, 
" The world has lost its dewy 
prime; 
Alas ! the Golden age is dead, 
And we are of the Iron time !" 

Each wreathed his scythe and twined 
his head ; 
They took their slow way through 
the plain : 
The minstrel and the maiden led 
Across the fields the solemn train. 

The air was rife with clamorous 
sounds, 
Of clattering factory — thundering 
forge, — 
Conveyed from the remotest bounds 
Of smoky plain and mountain 
gorge. 



AIRS FROM ALPLAND. 



Here, with a sudden shriek and roar, 
The rattling engine thundered hy; 

A steamer past the neighboring shore 
Convulsed the river and the sky. 

The brook that erewhile laughed 
abroad, 
And o'er one light wheel loved to 
P^y, 
Now, like a felon, groaning trod 
Its hundred treadmills night and 
day. 



The fields were tilled with steeds of 
steam, 
Whose fearful neighing shook the 
vales ; 
Along the road there rang no team, — 
The barns were loud, but not with 
flails. 

And still the mournful mowers said, 
" The world has lost its dewy prime ; 

Alas ! the Golden age is dead, 
And we are of the Iron time V 



AIKS FROM ALPLAND. 



MAECUS L. WARD, ESQ. 

To you, "who, in the broad commercial plain, 
Sittest where calm Passaic seeks the main, 
I bring these mountain airs, — and wake once more 
The minstrel harp you kindly heard of yore : 
Beside your fire the heavenward hill would rear, 
And give the pleasures of the mountaineer; 
"Would wake the music of the marvellous pass, 
And loose the avalanche's monster mass; 
Recall, had I such mastery o'er the strings, 
From St. Bernard the tempest's wildest wings! 
Assured the dreariest scene would soon depart 
Before your glowing hearth and genial heart ! 



THE LISTENERS. 

Under the vernal tents of shadowy 
trees, — 

A druid depth of oaken solitude, 

The home of wild flowers and the 
haunt of bees, 

The native vale of many a min- 
strel brood, — 

There ran a stream in its bewilder- 
ing mood 

Of song and silence and low whis- 
pering trance ; 

And stream-like paths went wind- 
ing through the wood 

From rock to glen, the temples of 
Romance, 
And there were lawns where Mirth 
might lead her wreathed dance. 



Upon a knoll o'ergrown with 

mosses sweet, 
"While dropt the sun adown the 

afternoon, 
A group of maidens made their 

merry seat, — 
June all around, and in their hearts 

was June ; 
And on their flowery lips the mel- 

• low tune 
Of early summer ; and with fingers 

fair 
Shaking the winged spoilers in 

their swoon 
Erom honey-bells of blossoms 

bright and rare, 
They wove their woodland wreaths 

and decked each other's hair. 



SONG ON ST. BERNARD. 



73 



But when they saw me pass be- 
tween the trees, 
Slow making toward the streamlet's 

yellow sands, 
" Come hither, thou new-comer 

from the seas, 
And sing to us fresh songs of 

foreign lands !" 
They cried, and placed a harp into 

my hands : 
And straightway I went stumbling 

o'er the strings, 
As best I could, to answer their 

demands, — 
Like some poor bird that with his 

trembling wings 
Beats at the caging wires, and to his 

mistress sings. 



THE FAIK PILGKIM. 

" Upon her little palfrey white 
Y e maiden sitteth eke upright, 
Her hair is black as y e midnight, 

Her eyes also. 
Her cheeks have snary dimples in, 
And Cupid's thumb hath touched her chin, 
And silken soft her lily skin, 
Her lips like crimson rose-leaves bin 

About her teeth of snow." 

Time was when, with the unrestraint 

Of an enamored soul and hand, — 
In lieu of these cold words, that 
faint 
And waver like a willow wand 
Before the vision I would paint, — 
I would have seized the ready 
brush, 
And, with the limner's clearer art, 
Poured out the softer hues that 
flush 
And flow within the painter's heart; 
Have shown you where she passed 
or stood, 
Between the Alpine light and shade ; 
Her stately form, her air subdued, 
Her dark eye mellowing to the 
mood 
That round her inmost spirit played. 
I would have wrought the daylight 
through 
To give what yet before me beams, 

And ceased at eve but to renew 
The impassioned labor in my dreams. 



But this is past : life takes and gives, 
And o'er the dust of hopes long 
gone 
The vision brightens as it lives, 
And mocks the hand that would 
have drawn 

Along those windings high and vast, 
Through frequent sun and shade 
she stole, 
And all the Alpine splendor passed 

Into the chambers of her soul ; 
For she was of that better clay 

Which treads not oft this earthly 
stage ; 
Such charmed spirits lose their way 

But once or twice into an age. 
Her voice was one that thrills and 
clings 
Forever in the hearer's bosom, — 
As when a bee with flashing wings 
Cleaves to the centre of a blos- 
som, — 
And with the mule-bells' measured 

chime 
Her fancies rung themselves to rhyme. 



SONG ON ST. BERNARD. 

Oh, it is a pleasure rare 

Ever to be climbing so, 
Winding upward through the air, , 

Till the cloud is left below ! 
Upward and forever round 

On the stairway of the stream, 
With the motion and the sound 

Of processions in a dream ; 
While the world bolow all this 
Lies a fathomless abyss. 

Freedom singeth ever here, 

Where her sandals print the snow, 
And to her the pines are dear, 

Freely rocking to and fro ; 
Swinging oft like stately ships, 

Where the billowy tempests sport ; 
Or, as when the anchor slips 

Down the dreamy wave in port, 
Standing silent as they list 
Where the zephyrs furl the mist. 

Here the well-springs drop their 
pearls, 

All to Freedom's music strung; 
And the brooks, like mountain girls, 

Sing the songs of Freedom's tongue. 



74 



AJXS FROM ALPLAND. 



And the great hills, stern and stanch, 
Guard her valleys and her lakes, 

And the rolling avalanche 

Blocks the path the invader makes, 

While her eagle, like a flag, 

Floats in triumph o'er the crag ! 



I HAVE LOOKED ON A FACE. 

I have looked on a face that has 
looked in my heart, 
As deep as the moon ever fathoms 
a wave ; 
As uncomprehended it came to de- 
part, 
While a sense of its glory was all 
that it gave. 

W'here she passed the Alp blossoms 
grew pallid and shrank, 
As a taper in sunlight sinks faint 
and aghast ; 
And now o'er her path swims a ter- 
rible blank, 
A gulf in the air where her beauty 
hath passed. 

But her light in my heart, which no 
time can eclipse, 
Seems to brighten and smile in the 
joy it confers ; 
And a voice which is shed from aerial 
lips 
Breathes a music I know which can 
only be hers ! 



THE CHAMOIS-HUNTER. 

" There ! — see you not upon the face 
Of yonder far and dizzy height 

A something with slow-moving pace, 
Now faintly seen, now lost to 
sight ? 

And now again, with downward 
spring, 

As if supported by a wing, 

It drops, then scarcely seems to crawl 

Along the smooth and shining Avail. 

Is it a bird ? or beast whose lair 

Is hid within some cavern there ? 

Or some adventurer who hath striven 

To scale that Babel wall to heaven ? 



In sooth, methinks, there never 

yawned 
A passage to the world beyond 
Of shorter access than now lies 
Around that climber in the skies." 

Then spake the guide : — 

" Unless I err, 
There is but one adventurer 

From Basle unto Geneva's lake, 
From Neufchatel to Splugen pass, 
Of all who freely scale the brow 
Of ice that crowns the Mer-de-glace, 
Or climbs the slippery Rosenlau, 
Who dares that dreadful path to 
take. 
Not him who sprang from ridge to 

ridge, 
And passed us on the Devil's Bridge, 
And told you all that perilous tale 
Which made your rosy cheeks grow 

pale. 
Nor him who in the Grimsel sang 
Among his fellows of the chase, 
Until the laughing rafters rang 
And scared all slumber from the 
place ; 
Or, if the weary traveller slept, 
Through all his dream the chamois 

swept. 
There never yet was hunter born 
So fierce of soul, so lithe of limb, 
So fearless on the mountain's rim, 
As Herman of the Wetterhorn. 
He robbed the Jungfrau of her fame, 
And put the chamois' flight to shame ; 
He takes the wild crag by the brow, 
As boatman might his shallop-prow. 
The avalanche he loves to dare,. 
To shout amid the wild uproar 
ntil 
full, 

Then stands upon the ruins there, 
Like some brave Spanish matador 
With foot upon the fallen bull ! 

" If all goes well as it should go, 

Two toiling hours of steady pace 
Must bring us to the ribs of snow 

That lie around the broken base 
Of that far height, and one hour more 
Should find us at the convent door; 
And there perchance will Herman be, 

His shoulder laden with chamois, 
His heart a mountain well of glee, 

His voice an alpine gust of joy." 



THE WARNING. 



75 



Two hours they toiled with steady pace, 
And they had gained that rocky base. 
But when the winding line had earned 
A jutting crag and partly turned, 
A sharp and sudden rifle-crack 

Broke through the thin and icy air, 

Jarring the frozen silence there, 

And rattled down the steep hill-side ; 
But ere the snow-cliffs gave it hack, 
A wounded chamois in their track 

Boiled bleeding, and there died! 
The startled rider checked his rein ; 

And the pedestrian stayed his pace : 
With looks of wonder or of pain 

Each stared into the other's face. 
And when the maid's first shock of fear 

In gentle tremblings passed away, 
Her dark eye glistening with a tear, 

She gazed where the dead creature 
fay. 

The graceful head, — the slender 
horns, — 
The eyes which Death seemed 

scarce to dull, 
So wildly sad, — so beautiful ! 
The polished hoofs, — the shining 

form, — 
The limbs that had outsped the 
storm, 
Thrilled her with wonder and with 
woe, 
Until she would have given a part 
Of the dear life-blood of her heart" 
To wake once more that gentle eye 
And bid the eagle's rival fly 
Unto his native crags of snow. 

Before their wonder all had passed, 
A voice came down the rising blast, — 
A voice that gayly soared and fell 
Along the wild winds' wandering 

swell ; 
A carol like a flying bird's — 

Faint were the notes at first, and 
then 
The sounds ran eddying into words 

That sang of mirth and Mevrinsen. 



SONG OF THE CHAMOIS- 
HUNTER. 

Oh, brave may be those bands, per- 
chance, 
"Who ride where tropic deserts 
glow,— 



Who bring with lasso and with lance 
The tiger to their saddle's prow : — 

But I would climb the snowy track 
Alone, as I have ever been, 

And with a chamois on my back, 
Descend to merry Meyringen. 

Oh, they may sing of eyes of jet, 

That melt in passion's dreamy 
glance — 
Of forms that to the castanet 

Sway through the languor of the 
dance : — 
But let me clasp some blue-eyed girl, 

Whose arms impulsive clasp again ; 
And through a storm of music whirl 

The dizzy waltz at Meyringen. 

And they may sing, as oft they will, 

Of joy beneath the southern vine, 
And in luxurious banquets fill 

Their goblets with the orient 
wine : — 
But when the Alpland winter rolls 

His tempests over hill and glen, 
Let me sit 'mid the steaming bowls 

That cheer the nights at Meyringen. 

Brave men are there with hands adroit 

At every game our land deems 
good,— 
To wrestle, or to swing the quoit, 

Or drain the bowl of brotherhood: — 
And when the last wild chase is 
through, 

We'll sit together, ^ray-haired men, 
And, with the gay Lisette to brew, 

Once more be young in Meyringen. 



THE WARNING. 

The song was done ; they raised their 

eyes, 
And saw between them and the skies 
A figure standing dark and mute 

That on a gleaming rifle leant, 
And all his form from bead to foot 

Was painted on the firmament. 
So still he stood, the quickest eye 
In its first gazing toward the sky 
Glanced twice, before discerning if 
The dusky shape were man or cliff. 
At length, a voice — so high and loud 
It seemed descending from the cloud — 



AIRS FROM ALPLAND. 



Swept down along the swelling gale, 
And made the stoutest hearer quail. 
" I charge ye, on ! I charge ye, speed ! 
And every gust proclaims the need. 
By all the surest mountain signs, 
By all the wailing of the winds, — 
And by the sobbing of the pines, — 
And by that avalanche which now 
Gives warning through the vale 

below, — 
By yonder rising cloud, whose wrath 
Makes desperate the safest path, 
I know the blast must soon perform 
The bidding of the monarch storm." 



STORM ON ST. BERNARD. 

Oh, Heaven, it is a fearful thing 
Beneath the tempest's beating wing 
To struggle, like a stricken hare 
When swoops the monarch bird of air ; 
To breast the loud winds' fitful spasms, 
To brave the cloud and shun the 

chasms, 
Tossed like a fretted shallop-sail 
Between the ocean and the gale. 

Along the valley, loud and fleet, 
The rising tempest leapt and roared, 

And scaled the Alp, till from his seat 
The throned Eternity of Snow 

His frequent avalanches poured 
In thunder to the storm below. 

The laden tempest wildly broke 
O'er roaring chasms and rattling 

cliffs, 
And on the pathway piled the drifts ; 
And every gust was like a wolf, — 
And there was one at every cloak, — 
That, snarling, dragged toward 
the gulf. 
The staggering mule scarce kept his 
pace, 
With ears thrown back and shoul- 
ders bowed ; 
The surest guide could barely trace 
The difference 'twixt earth and 
cloud ; 
And every form, from foot to face, 
Was in a winding-sheet of snow: 
The wind, 'twas like the voice of 
woe 
That howled above their burial-place ! 



And now, to crown their fears, a 

roar 
Like ocean battling with the shore, 
Or like that sound which night and 

day 
Breaks through Niagara's veil of 

spray, 
From some great height within the 
cloud, 
To some immeasured valley driven, 
Swept down, and with a voice so 
loud 
It seemed as it would shatter 
heaven ! 
The bravest quailed ; it swept so near, 
It made the ruddiest cheek to 
blanch, 
While look replied to look in fear, 

" The avalanche ! The avalanche !" 
It forced the foremost to recoil, 

Before its sideward billows 
thrown, — 
Who cried, " O God ! Here ends our 
toil! 
The path is overs wept and gone !" 

The night came down. The ghostly 

dark, 
Made ghostlier by its sheet of 

snow, 
Wailed round them its tempestuous 

woe, 
Like Death's announcing courier! 

" Hark ! 
There, heard you not the alp-hound's 

bark ? 
And there again ! and there ! Ah, no, 
'Tis but the blast that mocks us so !" 

Then through the thick and blacken- 
ing mist 
Death glared on them, and breathed 

so near, 
Some felt his breath grow almost 

warm , 
The while he whispered in their ear 
Of sleep that should out-dream the 

storm. 
Then lower drooped their lids, — when, 

"List! 
Now, heard you not the storm-bell 

ring ? 

. there 

thrice ! 
Ah, no, 'tis but the thundering 
Of tempests on a crag of ice I" 



FANCIES IN THE FIRELIGHT. 



77 



Death smiled on them, and it seemed 
good 
On such a mellow bed to lie : 
The storm was like a lullaby, 
And drowsy pleasure soothed their 

blood. 
But still the sturdy, practised guide 
His unremitting labor plied ; 
Now this one shook until he woke, 
And closer wrapt the other's cloak, — 
Still shouting with his utmost breath, 
To startle back the hand of Death, 
Brave words of cheer! " But, hark 

again,— 
Between the blasts the sound is plain ; 
The storm, inhaling, lulls, — and hark ! 
It is — it is ! the alp-dog's bark ! 
And on the tempest's passing swell — 
The voice of cheer so long de- 
barred — 
There swings the Convent's guiding- 
bell," 
The sacred bell of Saint Bernard !" 

Then how they gained, though chilled 

and faint, 
The Convent's hospitable door, 
And breathed their blessing on the 

saint 
Who guards the traveller as of 

yore,— 
"Were long to tell : — And then the 

night 
And unhoused winter of the height, 
Were rude for audience such as 

mine ; 
The harp, too, wakes to more delight, 
The fingers take a freer flight, 

When warmed between the fire and 

wine. 
The storm around the fount of song 
Has blown its blast so chill and 

long, 
What marvel if it freeze or fail, 
Or that its spray returns in hail ! 
Or, rather, round my muse's wings 
The encumbering snow, though melt- 
ing, clings' 
So thickly, she can scarce do more 
Than flounder where she most would 

soar ! 

The hand benumbed, reviving, stings, 
And with thick touches only brings 
The harp-tones out by fits and 

spells, — 



You needs must note how all the 

strings 
Together jar like icicles ! 
Then heap the hearth and spread the 

board, 
And let the glowing flasks be poured, 
While I beside the roaring fire 
Melt out the music of my lyre. 



FANCIES IN THE FIBELIGHT, 

IN THE CONTENT OF ST. BERNARD. 

Oh, it is a joy to gaze 
Where the great logs lie ablaze ; 
Thus to list the garrulous flame 
Muttering like some ancient dame ; 
And to hear the sap recount 
Stories of its native mount, 
Telling of the summer weather, 
When the trees swayed all together, — 
How the little birds would launch 
Arrowy songs from branch to branch, 
Till the leaves with pleasure glistened, 
And each great bough hung and 

listened 
To the song of thrush and linnet, 
When securely lodged within it, 
With all pleasant sounds that dally 
Bound the hill and in the valley ; 
Till each log and branch and splinter 
On the ancient hearth of Winter 
Can do naught but tell the story 
Of its transient summer glorv. 



Oh, there's tranquil joy in gazing 
; Where these great logs lie a blazing, 
While the wizard flame is sparkling, 
The memorial shadows darkling 
Swim the wall in strange mutation, 
Till the marvelling contemplation 
Feeds its wonder to repletion 
With each firelight apparition. 

There the ashen Alp appears, 
And its glowing head uprears, 
Like a warrior grim and bold, 
With a helmet on of gold ; 
And a music goes and comes 
Like the sound of distant drums. 

O'er a line of serried lances 
How the blazing banner dances, 
While red pennons rise and fall 
Over ancient Hannibal. 



73 DRIFTING. 


Lo, beneath a moon of fire, 


With outstretched hands, 


Where the meteor sparks stream by 


The gray smoke stands 


her, 


O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 


There I see the brotherhood 




Which on sacred Griitli stood, 


In lofty lines, 


Pledging with crossed hands to stand 


'Mid palms and pines, 


The defenders of the land. 


And olives, aloes, elms, and vines, 




Sorrento swings 


And in that red ember fell 


On sunset wings, 


Gessler, with the dart of Tell ! 


Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings. 


Still they fall aw'ay, and, lo ! 


Here Tschia smiles 


Other phantoms come and go, 


O'er liquid miles ; 


Other banners wing the air, — 


And yonder, bluest of the isles, 


And the countless bayonets glare, 


Calm Capri waits, 


While around the steep way stir 


Her sapphire gates 


Armies of the conqueror ; 


Beguiling to her bright estates. 


And the slow mule toiling on 




Bears the world's Napoleon. 


I heed not, if 




My rippling skiff 


Now the transient flame that flashes 


Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; 


'Twixt the great logs and the ashes, 


With dreamful ej'es 


Sends a voice out from the middle 


My spirit lies 


That my soul cannot unriddle, 


Under the walls of Paradise. 


Till the fire above and under 




Gnaws the stoutest wood asunder, 


Under the walls 


And the brands, in ruin blended, 


Where swells and falls 


Smoking, lie uncomprehended, — 


The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 


While the dying embers blanch, 


At peace I lie, 


And the muffled, avalanche, 


Blown softly by, 


Noiseless as the years descend, 


A cloud upon this liquid sky. 


Sweeps them to an ashen end. 
Thus at last the great shall be, 

And the slave shall lie with them, — 
Pie Jesn Domine 

Dona eis requiem I 


The day, so mild, 
Is Heaven's own child, 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; — 
The airs 1 feel 


Around me steal 




Are murmuring to the murmuring 
keel. 


DKLFTING. 




Over the rail 


My soul to-day 


My hand I trail 


Is far away, 


Within the shadow of the sail, 


Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 


A joy intense, 


My winged boat, 


The cooling sense 


A bird afloat, 


Glides down my drowsy indolence. 


Swims round the purple peaks remote : 


With dreamful eyes 


Bound purple peaks 


My spirit lies 


It sails, and seeks 


Where Summer sings and never dies : 


Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 


O'erveiled with vines, 


Where high rocks throw, 


She glows and shines 


Through deeps below, 


Among her future oil and wines. 


A duplicated golden glow. 


Her children, hid 


Far, vague, and dim, 


The cliffs amid, 


The mountains swim ; 


Are gambolling with the gambolling 


While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 


kid; 




DRIFTING. 

" Over the rail my hand I trail, 
Within the shadow of the saiV 




DRIFTING. 



With dreamful eijes my spirit lies 
Under the ivalls of Paradise!" 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 



79 



Or down the walls, 
With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand be- 
guiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep barque goes 
Where Traffic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of 



This happier one, 
Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship, 

To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise! 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 



INTKODUCTION. 



If from this oaten pipe — 
Plucked from the shadow of primeval woods, 
And waked to changeful numbers by strange airs, 
Born by my native stream, in leafy depths 
Of unfrequented glades — somewhat of song 
Pour through its simple stops, and wake again 
In other hearts what I have felt in mine, 
Then not in vain I hold it to my lips, 
And breathe the fulness of my soul away. 

My theme, the country — worthier theme is not 
In all the tomes which star the centuries, 
From blind Mseonides to Milton blind ! 
Oh ! would that I, with all my living sight, 
Might see the least of what their blank orbs saw ; 
And, seeing, wake but once their kindling note, 
And, unappalled, attempt their solemn bass ; 
Then would the song behind the argument 
Halt at less distance. As it is, I sing 
Conscious of the disparity, and tremble, — 
As who might not? But what mine eyes have seen, 
Ears heard, heart felt, my muse shall teach in numbers; 
Not with a bondmaid's hand, but housewife's care, 
Who holds chaste plenty better than rich waste. 
And not of wars terrestrial, or of heaven, 
Or of a hero, whose great name, ablaze 
With glory, lights the annals of an era, 
My pipe proclaims ; but of that pastoral phase, 
W r here man is native to his sphere, which shows 
The simple light of nature, fresh from God! — 



80 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

That middle life, between the hut and palace, 

'Twixt squalid ignorance and splendid vice ; — 

Above, by many roods of moral moves, 

The Indian's want, and happily below — 

If the superior may be called below — 

The purple and fine linen ; — the broad plain, 

"Where rests the base of our protecting walls, 

"Where many labor, though but few take note, 

And prop the world, as pillars prop a dome. 

Of trial and of triumph is my song, 

Of maidens fair and matronhood sublime, 

Of iron men who build the golden future, — 

Heroic wills, by which the hugest oak 

Is broken like a sapling; and to which 

The wilderness, the rank and noxious swamps, 

Inhospitable hills, renouncing all 

The incumbrances of ages, bow and bear 

The burthen of the harvest. — This my song. 

Scorn not the muse because 'mid scenes like these 

She loves to wander; and, with calm delight, 

Prefers to dwell among the rustic homes, 

Where sweet Content, beside the well-swept hearth, 

Sits like an angel, and will not depart. 

To this the plush and curtains of the proud. 

The stucco and thin gilding of the town — 

In halls where Luxury, excited, sees 

A thousand repetitions of herself 

Caught into shadowy corridors, afar, 

Of glass in glass interminably lost — 

Were cold and naked as the winter shed, 

Through which the snow falls filtered to the floor, 

Piling the cheerless drift. Let me but look 

On Nature through the tranquil change of day — 

The common shade and sunshine — and on life 

Which, unambitious, seeks no other hues 

To show her fair, or hide deformities. 

Ye who would seek for aught, beside such light 

And beauty as are found in summer fields, — 

For theories new, where splendid errors shine, 

And charm like sirens, while they drown the soul, — 

For aught of song which, covertly, dispreads 

The seeds which shall breed poison in the dews, 

And round the foot of our great sheltering Tree, 

Give root to vines, with odors breathing bane, — 

For any mystery deeper than which lies 

Between the bounds of human woe and bliss, — 

May close these harmless pages and pass on : 

The truths I seek lie round us in the sun. 

There are whom neither sun nor shade delights — 

One warming not, the other is not grateful; 

Who rest so deeply dungeoned in themselves, 

No sound can waken, and no light attract ; 

"Who lay approving hands on Nature's head, 

Too wise to sit, recipient, at her feet : 

The applause of such lies not within the pale 

Of my ambition. Though my song may be 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 81 

The transient music of a spring-time runnel, 

"Which may not last the season through ; — or though 

My light be only as an evening taper 

Placed in the casement of a hill-side home, 

Which, ere the midnight, in the socket dies ; — 

Still will I hold the satisfying trust, 

That some there are who, in a transient brook, 

Can find a music which may give them joy ; 

Or pleasure in the taper, lit at eve 

To send its ray aslant the peaceful vale. 

And yet one higher hope still lights my toil, 

And cheers the darkness when the lamp grows dim ; 

And I have pledged me in the heart to fill 

The compass of this wish, if in me lies 

Strength, native and achieved — and heaven vouchsafe 

What else is needful, equal to the task ! — 

Let me but place one stone within the wall — 

While the stout masons, with great plumb and line, 

Are laying the foundations, broad and deep, 

Of native mind, to be a temple, and 

A future tower of strength, — let me but place 

One stone within the wall, where worthier are, 

Inscribed with Poesy ! — no other word ! 

W T hether the name of him who placed it there 

Go with it, is but little ; and should be, 

In the just balance of true poets, — naught! 

Florence, 1854. 



PKELUDE. 

A vision" strode before me toward the west, 

What time the day let drop its golden shield — 

A giant form with sun-illumined face: 

His hue was like the last dull bar that falls 

At eve athwart the hill-tops. From his brow, 

A plume of many colors 'gainst the sky 

Blazed like a torch-flame. In his tawny hand 

A mighty bow he bore — so tall, its top 

Flamed in the sun-down, while the low extreme 

Trailed the dusk dews, unseen, along the vale. 

His eyes were deep, cavernous, unsubdued — 

So deep, a curse seemed crouching in their depth — 

And bent with fixed and melancholy stare ; 

The sun a target to his arrowy sight. 

He took no note of where his footsteps fell — 

No sound of tread, no rustle in the grass, 

Kan herald to his coming — all was soft 

And noiseless as the owlet's wing. His lips 

Were set in uncomplaining firmness ; his right hand 

Grasped, as with joy, the trophies at his girdle. 

From his huge breast no word of sadness broke — 

Not even a sigh to startle the calm hour ! 

And yet not voiceless was the air ; small sounds, 

Faint murmurs, delicate whisperings and low songs — 

The cadence of invisible choirs, perchance, 



82 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Of aboriginal elves, which fly the haunts 

Of pallid Saxons as a child a ghost ; — 

A choral sorrow, as if leaves and flowers, 

The sprites of wood and stream and water-fall, 

Were pouring out a burthen of despair, 

Filling the ear of twilight, rose and rose, 

Thrilled to the faint stars brightening overhead, 

And fell and fell, until the deep lakeheard 

The shy nymphs answering from their caves forlorn. 



* CHORUS. 



O, mighty spirit, flying, ever flying ! 

We are the woodlands — hearken to our wail ! 
Our poplars trembling and our maples sighing, 

Our great oaks bowing, as before a gale, 
Our pines all sorrowing and our aspens dying, 
Our sycamores with terror growing pale, 
All mourn thy flight. Oh ! turn to their embraces, 
Nor let the sunshine gloat upon their vacant places ! 

ii. 

O, mighty spirit, speeding, ever speeding ! — 

We are the hills and valleys thou hast loved ! 
Here rest your sires, their dead hearts freshly bleeding 

Beneath thy flight, while they lie unremoved 1 
Above their shrines dull foreign herds are feeding, 
And glides the grating ploughshare unreproved. 
Oh ! turn again — repel the foe's advance — 
Rebuild your midnight fires, and weave your warlike dance ! 

in. 

O, mighty spirit, fading, ever fading ! 

We are the springs and brooklets, rivers, lakes ! 
We miss your maidens — miss your children wading 

Along our sands and pebbles ; and where breaks 
Our lightest ripple now, it dies upbraiding 
The lonely marge, and every fountain aches ! 
Your light canoes lie warping on the shore, 
Half buried in the sand ! Oh ! turn to us once more ! 



CHOKUS OF ALL. 

O, mighty spirit, flying, ever flying ! 
« Thou wilt not stay and smile on us again : 
Our hopes are ashes, and our hearts are dying, 

Our garlands are transmuted to a chain ; 
Our necks beneath the conquerors are lying, 
The toiling yoke succeeds thy peaceful reign ! 
The clouds have ta'en thee ! We have looked our last, 
And mournful memory now alone can bring the past. 



THE SEW PASTORAL. 83 

The song was ended and the shade was gone, 
Lost in the fiery forests of the sun. 
But often since, as Eve her mantle drew 
O'er her chaste bosom, stepping from her cave, 
"Where all the day she nods above her urn 
Of dews and perfume, sentried by her owl — 
The muse has watched in the departing west, 
'Mid visionary landscapes, rivers, lakes, 
O'er purple prairies, and through golden woods, 
This flying shadow with his blazing bow 
And flashing arrows, flaming as they flew, 
Chasing the deer whose antlers 'Ifcid the stars 
Flung up the lustre of the dying day ; 
Or o'er the fallen bison saw him stand, 
His red foot glowing in its gorgeous mane. 

Such was the vision and its flight : and when 
All this had passed — the shadow and the song — 
A lovelier music to the spiritual ear 
Swelled through the starry air and filled the vale, — 
Sounds which seemed born in heaven, and poured. 
From out the constellations in the East. 
Scarce sweeter were the melodies, metbinks, 
Heard by the shepherds oh far Bethlehem's plain, 
What time the flocks, waked by the midnight dawn, 
Greeting the fancied advent of the day, 
Arose, their fleeces dripping fresh with dew, 
And cropt the wet grass in the amber light 
Of that one star which ushered in a morn 
That circles all the years, and, brightening, sheds 
Its radiance through the ages. 



CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 



FIRST SPIRIT. 

I am the fairest spirit breathed from God — 

Not mine the praise, but His — 
And where my footprints sanctify the sod 

There peaceful plenty is. 
Hail, happy land ! your ancient night is through- 

Receive us and be blest ! 
From this celestial urn of holy dew 

I here baptize the West ! 



SECOND SPIRIT. 

I am the child of her whose voice but now 

Made musical the air; 
I bring the laurel which shall bind your brow, 

I come to place it there. 
I bring the sword so tempered in the glow 

Of Courage, Truth, and Right, 
Its keen edge severs at one steady blow 

The tyrant's chain of might ! 



84 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Unsheathed still let it gleam athwart the land, 

The light of peace or ire ; 
Its flash shall be as lightning in your hand — 

Its stroke, a bolt of fire ! 
I bring the buds of future centuries 

To bloom upon your breast — 
They hold the dews of Freedom — and with these 

I here baptize the "West ! 

THIRD SPIRIT. 

I am that spirit born in Paradise, 

When man's first parents erred, 
And the deep judgment thundered from the skies 

The dread commanding word. 
I walked with them through far and thorny lands, 

In desert realms unknown, 
And taught them toil, until their tender hands 

Were tawny as my own. 
I bring the axe, the sickle, and the plough, 

Whose use alone gives rest — 
And with the dews which fell from Adam's brow 

1 here baptize the West ! 

FOURTH SPIRIT. 

I am that spirit who, in ages gone, 

No certain shelter found ; 
But here, at last, I hail the peaceful dawn, 

And bless the sacred ground. 
Mine was the name the joyous angels sung, 

To cheer the shepherds' ear ; 
And with that Star I into being sprung, 

And with that Star am here. 
And with this palm-branch, plucked from off the stem 

Of Heaven's own tree of rest, 
And dipped in dews which fell o'er Bethlehem, 

I, too, baptize the Westl 

The chorus died ; and presently the sound 
Of falling forests, and the woodman's blow, 
Of mill-wheels laboring in the stream, replied, 
With one loud voice, to welcome in the band : 
Then all was silent as befits the night. 



BOOK FIKST. 

Fair Pennsylvania ! than thy midland vales, 
Lying 'twixt hills of green, and bound afar 
By billowy mountains rolling in the blue, 
No lovelier landscape meets the traveller's eye. 
There Labor sows and reaps his sure reward, 
And Peace and Plenty walk amid the glow 
And perfume of full garners. I have seen 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 85 

In lands less free, less fair, but far more known, 

The streams which flow through history and wash 

The legendary shores, and cleave in twain 

Old capitals and towns, dividing oft 

Great empires and estates of petty kings 

And princes, whose domains full many a field, 

Rustling with maize along our native West, 

Outmeasures and might put to shame ! and yet 

Nor Rhine, inebriate reeling through his hills, 

Nor mighty Danube, marred with tyranny, 

His dull waves moaning on Hungarian shores — 

Nor rapid Po, his opaque waters pouring 

Athwart the fairest, fruitfullest, and worst 

Enslaved of European lands — nor Seine, 

Winding uncertain through inconstant France — 

Is half so fair as thy broad stream whose breast 

Is gemmed with many isles, and whose proud name 

Shall yet become among the names of rivers 

A synonyme of beauty — Susquehanna ! 

But where, fair land, thy smaller streams invite 

W T ith music among plenteous farms, I turn, 

As to a parent's fond embrace, and lay, 

Well pleased, my way-worn mantle by, and shed, 

With grateful heart, from off my weary feet 

The white dust gathered in the world's highway. 

Here my young muse first learned to love and dream — 

To love the simplest blossom by the road — 

To dream such dreams as will not come again. 

And for one hour of that unlettered time — 

One hour of that wild music in the heart, 

When Fancy, like the swallow's aimless wing, 

Flitted eccentric through all moods of nature — 

I would exchange, thrice told, this weary day. 

Then were yon hills, still beautiful and blue, 

Great as the Andes ; and this rushy brook, 

Which the light foot-board, fallen," turns aside, 

A torrent voluble, with noisy falls 

And gulfy pools profound ; and yonder stream, 

The fisher wades with ease to throw his bait 

Into the larger ripple, was a river 

To measure Jordan by! For then my thoughts 

Were full of scriptural lore, oft-heard at morn, 

And in the evening heard, until the place 

Became a Palestine, while o'er the hills 

The blue horizon compassed all the world. 

Adieu to Fancy ! Let me ope the gate, 
Wide as the lane it bars, and cool my feet 
Along the grassy path, and turn with joy, 
As erst, to yonder chapel on the hill. 
Lo ! the calm Sabbath sanctifies the air, 
And over all, from God's uplifted hand, 
The silence falls, and like a blessing lies 
The stillness on my spirit. The sweet sounds, 
Which unprohibited from Eden time till now 
Have charmed alike the day of toil and rest, 
Alone assail the ear, making the quiet heard, 
8 



86 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Soothing the soul as with a psalm ! Yon bird 

Which soars and falls, swinging its way through heaven 

On airy billows, and this brook which sings 

The better for the obstacles opposed, 

As bards have done, together with the sounds 

Of lesser note, which come from those small choirs 

In leafy chapels closed, make to the ear 

A music lovelier than the brazen notes 

Blown through the serried pillars of cathedrals. 

It is the Spring-time : April violets glow 
In wayside nooks, close clustering into groups, 
Like shy elves hiding from the traveller's eye ; 
The mellow air, which from the woodland comes, 
Is full of perfume shed from opening buds. 
There the young maple, earlier putting forth, 
In memory of the past dead Autumn gleams, 
And waves its purple torch ; and o'er the spring, 
The willow its own sprouting in the pool 
Hangs watching ; while the dryad in its branches 
Is dreaming of the hours when that fair maid, 
The child and light of yonder cot, shall come 
And, kneeling, laugh above her urn to see 
Her sweet face wrinkled by prophetic waters. 
The plough in this broad field with upthrown share, 
There left at yester sunset, lies at rest 
Along the midway furrow. Here the maize 
Shall rustle through the summer; while near by 
Already the live grain, which 'neath the snow 
Slept the white winter through, sends up its green 
And whispers in the sunshine. 

Lo ! anon, 
From hill-side homes and hamlets in the vale, 
One after one, in Sabbath garb arrayed, 
Their mantles breathing of deep oaken drawers 
And antique chests, the people throng, and take 
The various pathways which converging lead 
Here to this quiet shrine among the elms. 
Oh, happy hour, beloved of peace and heaven! 
Around and over all, the white calm lies 
Flooded with perfume and mysterious light; 
So sweet, so beautiful, it seems a day 
Lost out of Eden ! See, where children come, 
Like hopes unchecked, still running in advance, 
"With innocent laughter, but not over loud, 
Plucking the purple violets by the way ; 
While from their feet the butterfly, released 
But yesterday from out his winter cell, 
Darts up with devious flight, and, like a wisp, 
Wavers across the meadow ! Happy sounds, . 
By happier faces followed, still approach. 
What round and ruddy cheeks are there, to which 
Health, like the sun, with daily welcome comes, 
Leaving the impress of his glowing hand ! 
But suddenly their tongues to whispers low 
Drop, as their eyes look wondering on the stranger, 
And into decorous columns, two by two, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 87 

They file before me with shy glances cast 

From shadowy brims and snowy hoods turned back, 

By matron care arranged. Some in their hands 

Bear the small volume — book of praise or prayer ; 

And some with freedom-loving feet released 

Printing the dusty path, their little shoes, 

For Sunday polished, carry at the side, 

To be resumed at yonder stile which gains 

The highway near the church. And, following, soon 

The larger people come ; the youths and maids 

Joining their steps as chance or fancy leads ; 

And, after these, stout men with faces brown, 

And browner hands which on the plough-helves took, 

Ungloved, the last week's sunshine. At their side 

The matrons with fair brows but half-way cleared 

Of household cares, which, oft accomplished, still 

As oft recur, monotonous, only cheered 

By virtuous sense of duty and the light 

Of happy children, or encouraging words 

Heard at the well-served meal ; or, better still, 

Finding approval in their own calm hearts, 

"Whose gentle tempers round their daily toil 

Shed music and a halo else unknown. 

Here following still, with reverend steps and slow, 

Their garments venerable with age, and out 

Of joint with modern custom, come the sires 

And mothers of the country, silver-haired. 

One leans upon his cane, with knotted hands, 

An oak long bowed and gnarled by tempests ; one 

Stands upright as a winter pine. To-day 

He comes not in his long surtout of drab — 

The coat of many capes and sweeping skirt, 

Brushing the stubble, proof to winds rheumatic — 

Now laid aside until November calls, 

But in the spring-time garments of the past. 

See what a brow is there, where Time delights 

To place the warning record of the years ! 

Note the calm eye, grown mild with light of wisdom! 

Assisted by his arm, his partner, bowed, 

Walks tottering, with a palsy-shaken head, 

And mumbling to herself. Perchance she dreams, 

"Within her hazy brain, of that bright hour, 

Now buried beneath half a century, 

"When on that self-same arm she proudly leaned, 

And, with the blush of youth upon her cheek, 

Crossed this same pasture, and, returning, heard 

And answered to another name. Her hopes 

Of earth have all been realized — her dreams 

Have, one by one, gone floating down the past, 

Like bubbles in the sun, where envious years 

Have touched them into nothing, and now point 

Derision at the empty places. Thus 

Full many a heart grows old, and spirit bowed, 

In intellectual want — a poverty 

Scarce second to the need of bread I For what, 

When all the joys which stir our inward life, 



88 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

And wake a pleasure in the blood, are dead 

Or dying at their sources, can renew 

Long-past enjo} T ment, like the power of thought 

Drawn from a wisdom gleaned in fields of knowledge ? 

And many a life, before its time, thus wilts 

And withers to the root, and to each wind, 

Adverse or fair, rustles its sad complaint, 

Which else should sway with music. They should store, 

Like bees in summer, for their winter want, 

Nor leave improvidence to clip their wings. 

Not so the form she leans on : unto him 

Each sight and sound of Nature is a page 

Full of fresh thought and pleasing contemplation. 

A man not deep in books, but in research, 

Among the hidden lore which round him lies 

Most practical ; and all the neighborhood 

Holds him an oracle, and reverence pays, 

As well they may ; for he, within these bounds, 

Has held the keys of knowledge many a year, 

Teaching in yonder rude house in the grove. 

All these are of his scholars — first to last 

Have laid their little books upon his knee, 

And stumbled through their lessons undismayed, 

Guided with kindness ; and in every heart 

Is Master Ethan filially remembered. 

His son, a man of mild and easy mood — 

A nature far more gentle than befits 

One who must struggle with a stubborn soil — 

"Walks hearkening to his sire's discourse. And next, 

Lo, the staid matron, with emphatic step, 

Whose every movement speaks her stately soul — 

The undaunted mistress of her narrow realm, 

With all th' amenities which goodness gives — 

A woman fit for heroes to call mother ! 

With form less tall and full, the daughter comes, 

Her blonde hair waving round her gentle brow — 

A face to be remembered, and, methinks, 

Not easily forgotten ; for that eye, 

So deep and blue, where starry truth abides, 

As in the fabled well, once on, your own 

Falling, with its miraculous pure light, 

Stays not upon the face, but to the heart 

Looks in, as through a casement, and the soul 

Then feels as if an angel, going by, 

Had glanced within, and left its smile in passing ! 

And should your feet e'er wander to these vales, 

The farms of Hazel-meadow, many a tongue 

This picture shall attest, and, as they speak, 

Mark if the sigh comes not with confirmation. 

For there are hearts to which that face hath grown 

A part and a necessity, as grows 

A child unto the sunshine of a household ; 

And oft the neighboring groves shall hear her name, 

As some lone peasant takes his woodland way, 

Recalling the bright summers of the past. 

" Olivia!" they'll sigh, with slackened pace, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 89 

And all the leaves reply, " Olivia !" 
Yet unattended by the swains gallant, 
Nor yet free mingling with the joyous groups 
Of neighbor-maidens, from her childhood known, 
She keeps her Sabbath way ; still cheerful, though 
Her eyes are now more kin to tears than smiles. 
Nor are cold glances, sidelong looks unkind, 
And jealous hate, accusing her of pride, 
From former playmates cast upon her now ; 
But words all gentleness, and eyes all love, 
Meet her where'er she turns, which kindly say, 
If not in language, in each tone and act, 
" We know, dear friend, the secret which you keep, 
And whence the fountain of that springing tear 
The smile not wholly hides. "We know the pain 
Which cankers at that rose upon your cheek. 
We also grieve the absence which you grieve, 
And mourn the distance ; twixt his heart and ours, 
And pray for his return. Ships come and go, 
The sea gives up its living, day by day, 
And presently our Arthur shall return, 
Full of brave life and wisdom — shall return, 
Glowing with noble thoughts and filled with hope, 
The promise of great actions. Then, beneath 
The summer shade, or by the blazing hearth, 
His voice shall cheer the noonday or the eve, 
Recounting, with accustomed eloquence, 
Rare tales of travel, intermixed with song." 
Such is the comfort in each look and word 
Which soothes awhile her fancy, but not long ; 
For absence is a shadow which no light 
Can utterly dispel — a prison door, 
Before the spirit, made of grated bars, 
Through which the brightest day can only send 
A checkered sunshine. Here next, following, come 
The happy members of the parson's household ; 
And last, with thoughtful care conning, perchance, 
The plain, unwritten sermon of the day, 
The parson walks, a man of fifty years, 
Who half his life has labored in this field, 
Baptizing, marrying,— and burying oft 
Where death had put asunder. * His broad brow 
The quiet storehouse is of wisdom, learned 
From open nature, and vouchsafed from God. 
All week he tends within his noisy mill, 1 
Whose wheel now hangs and dreams o'er yonder stream, 
And bends his brawny shoulders to the sacks 
Which daily cross the threshold ; or among 
The ceaseless jar and whir of rumbling stones, 
And clattering hoppers, garrulous with grain, 
He walks amid the misty meal, and plans 
The solemn lesson for the coming Sabbath 
His heart is full of boundless sympathies : 
The stranger and the friend, the erring or 
The good, come not within his genial voice 
Or smile, but they go hence with firm resolve 
8* 



90 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

For happy change, or strengthened in the right. 
The old or young, departing, bear away 
The influence of his spirit in their hearts, 
E'en as they bear the mill-dust on their garments. 
The sire of Arthur he, the youth who now 
"Wanders in foreign lands, by romance led, 
Bearing the hearts and hopes of many hence ; 
But chiefly hers, long deemed by all his choice. 

By various ways the people still come in : 
Here on the hill-side path, with swinging arms, 
"Weaving the air with visionary shuttles, 
Gaunt Bowman mounts, ascending as on treadles- 
Bowman, chief weaver of the vale ; his wife 
Close following, like himself, arrayed in suit 
Of home-made russet. Down the dusty road 
The vehicles, of various forms, approach : 
The rattling wagon, out of joint and loose, 
"With temporary seats, and difficult 
For unaccustomed riders ; and the chaise 
"With rocking motion, easy as a chair, 
Drawn by a jogging steed whose shoulders still 
Feel the fresh record of the yester plough. 
Some, rudely mounted as equestrians, come ; 
The switch held upward, like a sword ; the horse, 
"With swinging head, blowing the foam in air : 
And here, anon, the family steed is seen, 
Bearing a double burthen with slow pace. 
How all the landscape, with the Sabbath scene, 
Smiles with a bland and staid propriety ! 

About the chapel door, in easy groups, 
The rustic people wait. Some trim the switch, 
"While some prognosticate of harvests full, 
Or shake the dubious head, with arguments 
Based on the winter's frequent snow and thaw, 
The heavy rains, and sudden frosts severe. 
Some, happily but few, deal scandal out, 
"With look askance pointing their victim. These 
Are the rank tares in every field of grain — 
These are the nettles stinging unaware — 
The briers which wound and trip unheeding feet— 
The noxious vines, growing in every grove! 
Their touch is deadly, and their passing breath 
Poison most venomous ! Such have I known — 
As who has not ? — and suffered by the contact. 
Of these the husbandman takes certain note, 
And in the proper season disinters 
Their baneful roots ; and, to the sun exposed, 
The killing light of truth, leaves them to pine 
And perish in the noonday ! 'Gainst a tree, 
"With strong arms folded o'er a giant chest, 
Stands Barton, to the neighborhood chief smith ; 
His coat, unused to aught save Sunday wear, 
Grown too oppressive by the morning walk, 
Hangs on the drooping branch : so stands he oft 
Beside the open door, what time the share 
Is whitening at the roaring bellows' mouth. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 91 

There, too, the wheelwright — he, the magistrate — 

In small communities a man of mark — 

Stands with the smith, and holds such argument 

As the unlettered but observing can ; 

Their theme some knot of Scripture hard to solve. 

And "gainst the neighboring bars two others fan, 

Less fit the sacred hour, discussion hot 

Of politics ; a topic which, inflamed, 

Knows no propriety of time or place. 

There Oakes, the cooper, with rough brawny hand, 

Descants at large, and, with a noisy ardor, 

Battles around his theme as round a cask ; 

"While Hanson, heavy-browed, with shoulders bent, 

Bent with great lifting of huge stones — for he 

A mason and famed builder is — replies 

"With tongue as sharp and dexterous as his trowel, 

And sentences which like his hammer fall, 

Bringing the flinty tire at every blow ! 

But soon the approaching parson ends in peace 
The wordy combat, and all turn within. 
Awhile rough shoes, some with discordant creak, 
And voices clearing for the psalm, disturb 
The sacred quiet, till, at last, the veil 
Of silence wavers, settles, falls ; and then 
The hymn is given, and all arise and sing. 
Then follows prayer, which from the pastor's heart 
Flows unpretending, with few words devout 
Of humble thanks and askings ; not, with lungs 
Stentorian, assaulting heaven's high wall, 
Compelling grace by virtue of a siege ! 
This done, with loving care he scans his flock, 
And opes the sacred volume at the text. 
"Wide is his brow, and full of honest thought — 
Love his vocation, truth is all his stock. 
With these he strives to guide, and not perplex 
With words sublime and empty, ringing oft 
3Iost musically hollow All his facts 
Are simple, broad, sufficient for a world ! 
He knows them well, teaching but what he knows. 
He never strides through metaphysic mists. 
Or takes false greatness because seen through fogs; 
Nor leads 'mid brambles of thick argument 
Till all admire the wit which brings them through ; 
Nor e'er essays, in sermon or in prayer, 
To share the hearer's thought ; nor strives to make 
The smallest of his congregation lose 
One glimpse of heaven, to cast it on the priest. 
Such simple course, in these ambitious times, 
Were worthy imitation ; in these days, 
When brazen tinsel bears the palm from worth, 
And trick and pertness take the sacred desk ; 
Or some coarse thund'rer, armed with doctrines new, 
Aims at our faith a blow to fell an ox — 
Swinging his sledge, regardless where it strikes, 
Or what demolishes— well pleased to win 
By either blows or noise! — A modern seer, 



92 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Crying destruction ! and, to prove it true, 
Walking abroad, for demolition armed, 
And boldly levelling where he cannot build I 
The service done, the congregation rise, 
And with a freshness glowing in their hearts, 
And quiet strength, the benison of prayer, 
And wholesome admonition, hence depart. 
Some, loath to go, within the graveyard loiter, 
"Walking among the mounds, or on the tombs 
Hanging, like pictured grief beneath a willow, 
Bathing the inscriptions with their tears ; or here, 
Finding the earliest violet, like a drop 
Of heaven's anointing blue upon the dead, 
Bless it with mournful pleasure ; or, perchance, 
With careful hands, recall the wandering vine, 
And teach it where to creep, and where to bear 
Its future epitaph of flowers. And there, 
Each with a separate grief, and some with tears, 
Ponder the sculptured lines of consolation. 

" The chrysalis is here — the soul is flown, 

And waits thee in the gardens of the blest!" 

" The nest is cold and empty, but the bird 

Sings with its loving mates in Paradise I" 

" Our hope was planted here — it blooms in heaven !" 

" She walks the azure field, 'mid dews of bliss, 

While 'mong the thorns our feet still bleed in this !" 

" This was the fountain, but the sands are dry — 

The waters have exhaled into the sky !" 

" The listening Shepherd heard a voice forlorn, 

And found the lamb, by thorns and brambles torn, 

And placed it in his breast ! Then wherefore mourn ?' 

Such are the various lines ; and, while they read, 
Methinks I hear sweet voices in the air, 
And winnowing of soft, invisible wings, 
The whisperings of angels breathing peace I 



BOOK SECOND. 

Where now Olivia, joined by her one friend 

And confidante, Amy, the wheelwright's daughter, 

Turns from the church, a youth from yonder town, 

The village of the vale, the postman's son, 

With courteous greeting, unobserved bestows 

A missive blurred with foreign stamps, through which 

The ciphers of her name are dimly seen. 

Swift darts the flush across her cheek and brow ; 

Her brain is reeling with the sudden joy ; 

She clasps the letter as 'twere Arthur's hand, 

Then slips it in her bosom, where it hears 

The impatient fluttering of her happy heart. 

Both silently pursue their homeward walk, 
With arm affectionate at each other's waist. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 93 

No lovelier picture e'er shall bless the vale 

Than those two maidens strolling down the fields, 

Their faces beautiful with various thoughts ; 

One lost 'mid visions rising in her soul, 

Until her eyes grow dreamy with love's dew ; 

The other, with warm pressure of the arm, 

And tender looks, pronouncing sympathy ! 

Their pleasing pathway leads by yonder grove ; 

But scarce their footsteps skirt the silent wood, 

"When Amy, with a shudder, checks her pace ; 

Olivia recoils, and both stand still! 

Lo ! the weird dame of Oakland stops their path ! 

A beldame, bowed, bearing a bunch of sticks 

To light her evening fire. Her shreds of hair 

Floating in snowy wisps beneath her hood, 

The toothless visage, shrivelled, pinched, and cramped 

By years which well nigh span a century's gap, 

Make her, to youthful eyes, a sight uncouth ; 

And even the whisper of her name oft sends 

An ugly phantom to the urchin's pillow, 

Smoothing his wry face in the covers hid. 

Her voice is like the creak of withered boughs ! 

And, with a smile across her frosty face, 

She summons the half-timid maids approach. 

Lo ! there the living allegory stands 

Of "Winter beckoning to young May and June! 

" Hey-day ! fair lasses, I've a word for you !" 

She cries, and holds her shrivelled finger up. 

" Can you tell why the bluebird, on yon branch, 

Is singing so? Ah, silly hearts, to say 

It sings for simple pleasure ! Know you why 

This brook, which through your fathers' meadows flows, 

Makes such sweet music and so swiftly runs? 

Ah, no ; you have not pondered on it well. 

The bluebird is a young man's heart, forsooth ; 

The brook, the heedless fancies of a maiden. 

One sings, with all its art, to win a mate ; 

The other hurries, without knowing why, 

Until it meets the river. There — go! go! 

And when your sweethearts next shall clasp your hands, 

Ask them, in autumn, whither fly the birds? — 

If they depart in singing pairs together? 

And tell them how the winter shall come in, 

And choke the brook with ice till it is dumb ! 

Yet, stay ! you are, I see, the wheelwright's daughter. 

"What doth he with the chips about his door, 

That a poor soul is not allowed to have 

A shaving but to light her fagots with ? 

Who grudgeth splinters may, himself, want logs ; 

Who gives no drink may have his well go dry ! 

The kind man's wheat is seldom trampled down, 

Nor oft his fence-rails feed the poor man's oven ; 

His herds come home, not worried by the dogs ; 

His horse, astray, is not put into pound ! 

When you are married, teach your husband this, 

If you would have him thrive. But, mark you, first, 



94 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Beware the brightness of your coal-black eye, 
For it may fascinate to your own harm I 
I have a parable for you : 

A little bird there was would sing, 

Would sing with all its throat, 
And sang so loud that every wing 

Came hurrying to the note. 
A sailing hawk, among the rest, 

On spotted pinions came, 
And floated east, and floated west, 

Still circling near his game, 
Until she fancied every breast 

Must feel an envious flame ! 

His eye was on the silly bird, 

It made her heart rejoice ; 
She thought, too true, the great hawk heard, 

With deep delight, her voice. 
And, nearer still, she saw him stoop, 

On wheeling pinions g&j — 
The noblest wing, of all the troop, 

She fancied his that day — 
Till, with one sudden, cruel swoop, 

He bore her far away ! 

Your sky now shines as bright as this o'erhead, 

But I can see, as over yon blue hills, 

Trre white clouds rising which, before the night, 

Shall fill the land with thunder and with rain." 

Thus speaking with a frown, she clears ner brow 

And to the other turns : — " And you, I see, 

Are daughter to good neighbor Baldwin here. 

You have a lover — ay, I know it well — 

I rocked his cradle when he was a child, 

And promised him a sweetheart fair and kind ; 

And as I said a sweetheart, how he laughed, 

And clapped his dimpled hands, as if the word 

He could not comprehend, had music in't. 

And then, upon the day that you were born, 

I took you, in your little robes of Avhite, 

And, on a pillow, bore you to the window. 

' See there,' said I, ' your sweetheart, in the field, 

Is chasing butterflies among the clover!' 

And then you smiled. It may be fancy, still, 

Methought, I saw you smile as you smile now ! 

Come to my cot, anon, if you would know 

The mystery of the future — when the moon 

Is in the crescent, come ! And mark you well 

To view her o'er the shoulder on the right; 

For she is jealous, and, viewed otherwise, 

Can work you direful mischief. When you plant, 

Either your hopes or flowers, oh ! then beware 1 

Consult her pleasure, and look out the signs, 

Else will they bear you thorns, and never roses, 

And tear the hand which planted ! Call me witch, 




THE NEW PASTORAL. 



" Call me witch , 
Or what you will; but only this remember, 
When evil I predict, beware— beware .'" 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 95 

Or what you will ; but only this remember, 

When evil I predict, beware — beware !" 

Thus saying, she adjusts her twisted load 

Of gnarled sticks, and turns into the grove, 

Shaking her warning finger as she goes. 

" Nay, Amy dear, mind not the snarling dame !" 

Speaks mild Olivia, comforting her friend ; — 

" Her brain is far more crooked than her body ; 

Her temper is as crabbed as a thorn, 

"Which, when an ill wind blows, can only chafe 

And worry its own branches ! Mind her not ! 

'Tis evident she holds a harmless grudge. 

Poor soul ! I needs must pity her — so old, 

And so forlorn — she must be miserable !" 

To which the other answers, with a shudder, 

" Some say she is a witch, and can work harm, 
Send sickness 'mong the cattle, and brew storms !" 

" Mere superstition !" cries her friend. " 'Tis wrong, 

; Tis sinful, to hold such belief of one 
Whom God has made, even as he has us ! 
The height of her pretence is but to tell 
The fortune, from the hand, as many do, 
Which hath no further harm in it than this, 
That some there are, who, foolishly, have faith, 
And wait her promises, with hope or dread. 
Why, I, myself, will turn a cup, and read 
The accidental figures in the grounds, 
And thereby, with shrewd guesses, tell the future ; 
And yet I am no witch ! I pity her : 
And I have heard my grandsire often say, 
There was a time when she was young and fair, 
And light of heart, as either you or I ; 
And how she was betrothed, and how the war 
Left her as friendless as we see her now. 
Suppose — but, no, we will not think of that ; 
But let us pity the poor crone, and pray, 
When we grow old, we may not be like her." 
Thus saying, they approach diverging paths, 
And, after sweet adieus, take separate ways. 



BOOK THIRD. 

How, o'er the silent fields, the white heat gloats 
And shimmers like a silver swarm ! Anon, 
A distant rumbling shudders through the air, 
Shed from those domes of thunder in the west, 
Which swell and rise, and, brightening, as they swell, 
Show the black walls beneath, from out whose ports 
The flash shall lighten and the rain be poured ! 
The warning given, the various stragglers hear, 
And note it well, and hasten to their homes. 
Olivia, now, hath crossed her native porch, 
Where, earlier arrived, the family sit. 
There, unappalled by unmolesting friends, 
The russet wren glides in among the vines, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 

And adds another strand unto its nest, 

Then, on the neighboring trellis, pours its song. 

The poor man's cottage is its favorite haunt ; 

And he is poor, indeed, who to his roof 

Can welcome not the yearly visitor, 

To cheer his door with music ! There, too, comes, 

But less to be desired, the boring bee, 

Blowing his warning horn, and in the wood 

Mining his secret galleries secure. 

A carpenter is he who for himself 

Builds, and destroys for others ; while the dust 

Of his incessant saw upon the floor 

Demands the busy broom. Some on the face 

"Wear the white badge of innocence, and these 

Fall frequent captives to the boy who frights 

The smaller children with the stingless shape. 

The wayward swallows flicker through the air, 

Or, safely sheltered 'neath the mossy eaves, 

Sit chattering scandal at their clay-built doors ; 

"While others, with a taste for soot and smoke, 

Dart down the chimney, with a muffled noise, 

Echoing the distant thunder. For these sounds 

Olivia hath no ear, nor any eye 

For aught save that dear page o'er which she pores, 

Beading it with her heart as with her sight I 

Secure from all intrusion, there she sits 

Beside her chamber-window. O'er the sill 

The creeping vine looks in, and on her brow, 

Flushed Math delight, the passing air is shed 

Fresh with the perfume of the coming rain ; 

And ere she is aware the darkness falls, 

Deeper than twilight, and the first big drops 

Battle like pebbles on the sultry shingles, 

And splash the window-ledge. Then bursts the shower, 

And roars along the roof. The while, outside, 

The house-top smokes with the rebounding spray ; 

The troughs with fulness choke and overrun ; 

And noisy water, streaming from the eaves, 

Deepens the furrows in the earth beneath. 

Or, if the shower abates a breathing-spell, 

The crooked flash blinds the calm instant, when 

The sudden thunder stamps upon the storm, 

And fiercer, fuller, louder than before, 

The drowning deluge pours, and frights the house 

To silence and to wonder. Still she reads, 

And thus the tenor of the letter runs : — 



The scenes which I most wished to se 
The shrines of the immortal dead 
Have known me, and I now am free. 



" There is no chain the tyrant makes 
So strong as that of young Desire, 

No chord the siren Music wakes 
So sweet as Fancy's pilgrim lyre. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 97 

" I've traced the chain which led me on, 

And saw it fall, like links of sand, 
And followed till the charm was gone 

From Fancy's harp-awaking hand. 

" If for myself I lived alone, 

If there was no fond heart to greet 
"With love the fulness of my own, 

I here could deem my life complete. 

" Desire achieved is pleasure lost — 

Hope dies when cold possession comes — 
And Memory poorly pays the cost 

With her exact and formal sums." 

Thus far she reads, and with a tremor stops. 

A tear is on the page — one mournful tear — 

As it would blot the last sad verse away. 

Who tells me Love is blind ? Oh, say not so ! 

He is an Argus in the soul which sits 

And watches with an hundred tireless eyes — 

A diligent recorder of each act 

And word is he. The steward of his house 

Sleeps not in indolence beside the wine, 

Or squanders among strangers, unrebuked, 

The master's wealth ! And still Olivia reads : — 

" If I have said, a hope achieved 

Is something lost, oh ! do not frown ; 
Nor let your gentle mind be grieved 

That love when won is pleasure flown. 

"For, in my inmost heart, I hold 

Our love was never here begun ; 
But, old as our two souls are old, 

It dates more cycles than the sun. 

" That somewhere, in God's outer space, 

Our spirits had together birth, 
With kindred ties, no time or place 

Can utterly destroy on earth. 

" Then since our love was never won, 

And cannot wilt in sun or frost, 
Still let me sing, as I have done — 

'Desire achieved is pleasure lost!' " 

Her heart, rebuked, is touched to tenderness, 
And through the starry light of swimming tears, 
Too happy to be shed, she reads again : — 

" Thy brightness so encircles me 

I cannot reach its bounds, 
What though my footsteps daily trace 

The paths of foreign grounds ? 



98 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

" I walk in an unbroken dream 

Of thy remembered light, 
A moving dome it glows by day, 

A sheltering arch by night ! 
My waking hours in peace are spent — 
I sleep as in a guarded tent !" 

Oh, love, thrice happy love, that thus can make 

A day of darkness, and, at noontime, shed 

A light which gilds the sunshine ! Naught she hears, 

Nor sees the swelling freshet in the vale, 

The stream, a roaring torrent, bearing down 

Dead limbs and fallen trees, and in its wrath 

Leaving the meadows fenceless, and, anon, 

liobbing the woodman of his winter cords. 

Still, as the rain assaults the roof, she reads : — 

" I see Italia, with her spires and domes, 
Her pinnacled cathedrals and her towers, 

Her castles, and gray ruins, and the homes 
Of splendid infamy in princely bowers I 

Here Sin and Shame together herd, like gnomes 
Mining in secret, and here Hunger cowers, 

And squalid Want before the palace waits, 

And stays the stranger passing at the gates ! 

" Where Art, of all the good which hath been, lives, 
Holding decaying state, half imbecile, 

Like Tyranny, and now no more receives 
The aid of genius, but with fading smile 

Lives on the past ; or, if a new hand gives — 
As Allston and Thorwaldsen gave erewhile — 

An impulse to her old triumphal car, 

It is not native here, but comes from far ! 

" Where once the North, in swift destruction skilled, 
Trampled the arts to ruin, now, behold, 

Across the Alps it comes again to build ; 

And the New World, with reverence for the Old, 

Sends her few sons, with native ardor filled, 
Lending new life where all is dead and cold. 

The Tuscan capital and haughty Eome 

Grow prouder while they hold our sculptor's home. 

" But all these glorious galaxies of art — 
This antique world — this garden of the past — 

Not long can bid the dream of home depart. 
The marble Venus hath a charm to last 

With those alone who wear a wandering heart. 
Beside the Apollo, watching where is cast 

His long-gone arrow, oft I stand and see 

Its far flight ever guiding back to thee. 

" Oh for one hour along the quiet lane 
Which leads between the school and thy dear home, 

To breathe those tender April vows again ! 

Or by the stream, or through the woods to roam, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 99 

As we were wont when summer held her reign, 

Conversing love, though from our lips might come 
No sound of words ! Oh, sighing hearts, give o'er, 
Ye yet shall sing together as of yore !" 

The page is finished, and a sudden glow, 
Sent from an iris towering in the east, 
Sheds o'er her face its lustre, till she sees 
And blesses the bright bow, as happy sign 
And confirmation of her lover's words ! 



BOOK FOUKTH. 

The storm is past ; but still the torrent roars, 

Louder and louder, with incessant swell. 

The brook, near by, hath overswept its bounds, 

Drowning its tallest rushes ; and the board 

"Which made the path continuous to the school — 

And where the children loitered to behold 

The minnows playing — now is borne afar, 

Sweeping above the bowing hazel tops. 

Within the opening west, the careful sun — 

Like one who throws his mansion doors apart, 

And looks abroad, to scan his wide estate — 

Is forth to note the progress of the storm, 

And what its rage hath wrought. Afar and near, 

The clouds are all ablaze with amber light ; 

The earth receives it, and the fields look glad ; 

And still the rainbow, brightening as it grows, 

Kises and bends, and makes the perfect arch. 

All crowd the porch, and wonder at the flood, 

"With various surmises and alarms ; 

And Master Ethan takes his hat and cane, 

( u Pilgrim," he calls the cane, for it hath been 

Through many generations handed down, 

Since first some long-gone ancestor had found 

The straight stem growing in an English grove 

And gave the ivory top,) " Pilgrim" he takes, 

And strides across the vale. Not winding round 

By easy paths, but with a course direct, 

O'er fences and ploughed fields, to younger feet 

Forbidding, bends his steps, and gains the mill ; 

And lo ! the sad fulfilment of his fears ! 

The dam has burst ! and, with a roar of triumph, 

The freshet mocks the miller as it flies. 

There stands the parson, there his good wife stands, 

Surrounded by their children, and with words 

Of wonder and of comfort Ethan comes. 

The miller takes his sympathizing hand, 

And in reply makes answer with a sigh — 

" He rules the storm, the floods are in His hold, 

He gives and takes, and doeth all things well 1" 

The sun goes down ; the day departs in peace ; 

And through the vale the starry tapers gleam, 

Signals of household calm, from cottage homes ; 



100 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

And here and there, perchance, the slender ray- 
Conducts the venturous feet of rustic swain, 
"Who seeks the fireside where the maiden sits 
Expectant of his step and welcome knock. 
Not thus Olivia waits ; but even thus, 
Beside the wheelwright's evening-lighted hearth, 
Her gentle friend, with an uneasy breast, 
Holds anxious quiet till her lover comes. 
Not long she waits, but, with a fluttering heart, 
Hears his approach, and welcomes him with smiles 
And maiden blush discreet. The well-pleased sire 
Takes, with rough grasp, the youth's smooth hand in his, 
And points the place of honor by the fire. 
The matron, with misgivings in her mind, 
Bends the cold nod, and, bustling for a while 
About her household cares, withdraws in doubt, 
Shaking her dubious head. Not so the squire : 
He sits and lights his pipe, in social mood, 
"Which, oft as jovial converse lets go out, 
As oft the glowing ember reillumes. 
At last, with easy tapping at the jamb, 
The ashes fall ; the pipe is laid aside, 
And he departs, and leaves the room to love — 
To happy whisperings, breathing words so low 
That naught is heard except the cricket's song, 
In chorus with the simmering of the log 
And muttering flame, which hath a voice prophetic. 
Oh, Muse, forbear !. Although 'mid scenes like this, 
Thy wont is ever to draw softly near, 
And sit eavesdropping at the door of Love ! 
Forbear, forbear ! and be no record kept, 
Except within the pages of their hearts, 
For Time hereafter to peruse with joy, 
Or Grief to blot with tears. Or if to note 
Thou needs must lend thine ear, approach, invade 
The sanctuary, by intruding feet 
Seldom assailed — chief bedroom of the house — 
And say the tenor of the long dispute. 
" He is no choice of mine," so speaks the spouse. 
To which the squire demands, with testy words, 
" A reason, wife, a reason? — without that 
Your talk is but an idle wind, to which 
My set conviction is no weathervane." 
" Well, call it but a wind," the wife replies ; 
" But 'tis a wind which runs before the storm, 
And tells which way the bitter cloud is coming. 
And as for reason, it is quite enough 
My heart mislikes him, and I never found 
My instincts wrong. Besides, you know the dream 
I told you of." To which the husband answers, 
"With growing tartness, " Wind — heart — instinct — dream! 
A woman's reason truly ! Now hear mine : 
The youth is comely, and our daughter loves him, 
And, fresh returned from college, is well bred, 
"With so much learning that the neighborhood 
Looks on him wondering, and the loutish swains 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 101 

Eye him with jealousy. Who, more than T, 
Should know the advantage of a well-stored mind ? 
Hence am I magistrate ; and he may be, 
As he is like to be, the people's choice, 
And take his seat in Congress. Then remark 
"What honor follows, which must e'en reach us." 
To which the wife — " Were he the Governor, 
I would not bate a jot what I have said. 
Where goes my liking not, I ask no honor. 
He is no choice of mine. You may despise 
The dream I told you ; but I say his eye 
Is just the eye that glittered in the snake ; 
So like that, when he looks at me, I shudder, 
And chiefly when he smiles. And he wears rings — 
I like not that — the snake was also ringed." 
"Tush, woman!" cries the squire, interrupting; 
" Look Reason in the face, and put to blush 
Your childish superstition ! Answer this : 
Who hath the largest farm in all the State? 
Who the best cattle ? Who the fullest purse ? 
And is not this his heir ?" The spouse replies, 
With bitterness which gives each sentence strength: 
" How was the farm procured ? Bit after bit, 
By cunning tricks of law. If each had theirs — 
The poor man, and the widow, and the orphan — 
Those cattle would go home to different stalls. 
Case after case hath come to you for trial ; 
And you should know — for it hath oft been said, 
Oft been a taunt our children heard at school — 
That you gave favor 'gainst the poor man's cause. 
Oh, Walters, many a time as I have heard 
Some neighbor here recount to you his wrongs, 
My heart has ached, and indignation flamed, 
Until I wished that, in your icy stead, 
I might sit there and hold the whip of Justice ! 
He, too, is maker of that poison drug 
Which blights the land with poverty and woe. 
His still-house knows no rest, by day or night, 
Until one needs must think a demon tends it. 
Oh, he hath much to answer for, and grows 
More fat in sin than body ! E'en the swine 
He yearly bloats for slaughter at his troughs 
Roll in less ugliness than~he to me." 
The husband, angered, scarce can find reply, 
He feels the truth, but will not leave his point ; 
His judgment, like a wayward child rebuked, 
Grows sullen and determined in the wrong, 
But presently responds : — " Well, say no more ; 
When weds the maid, the maid shall have her choice. 
And if it be this youth — so let it be." 
To which the wife makes answer with resolve: 
" I shall forbid, and if against my voice, 
Encouraged on by you, the girl shall go, 
Then be what mischief follows at your door — 
I'll none of it." The voices cease ; and now 
The stars of midnight glimmer o'er the vale; 
9* 



102 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

The wheelwright's gate swings in the silent dark, 
And one lone rider occupies the road. 



BOOK FIFTH. 

The lamp, renewed, still sheds a cheerful light, 

Hope lends a halo to its steady blaze ; 

And through the casement beam the westward stars, 

Taking their noiseless way, and shining still, 

Though sleeps the world and there are few to note. 

And thus, encouraged by example high, 

The Muse awakes her simple theme and sings, 

And breathes, in the attentive ear of night, 

The song to-morrow may refuse to hear. 

When comes the tumult of the noisy day, 

And the great city, like a cataract, swells, 

Pouring its drowning tide of toil and trade; 

Not Pan's own pipe might bid it turn and hark, 

And, hearkening, be refreshed, much less the tune 

Floating unskilful from these rustic stops. 

Oh, thou To-morrow ! wherefore wilt thou rise, 

And shake the quiet from thy garment's fold, 

E'en as a lion shakes the dream of peace 

From out his mane, and springs upon his prey ? 

As on the Sabbath, birds and brooks will sing, 

The flowers come forth, and gentle airs shall breathe. 

Laden with perfume ; yet wilt thou go forth, 

Girded with love of transient gain and power 

As if the world of beauty and of song 

Behind the gates of yesterday lay closed ! 

Oh, rapid Age, where tends thy noisy course? 

Thy roaring wheels affright me, and I shrink — 

Shrink to the wayside hedge, and stand appalled ; 

And, 'mid the smoke and discord, blindly ask 

The question none will spare the time to answer ! 

"Where tends thy course ? To that white mart of Peace 

"Where Wisdom, on the perfect throne of Knowledge, 

Keigns absolute, and Justice, loving all, 

And by all loved, hath dropped her useless scales? 

Or to the realm of Discord, where the walls, 

For their stupendous height, shall one da}' fall, 

With louder ruin, round the homes of men ; 

And this huge tower aspiring to the heavens, 

Which Science daily rears, be stayed at last 

With multitudinous jargon of wild tongues? 

Vain question, where no voice will make reply. 

Time only answers in the distant future, 

So far his words faint in the midway air, 

Or come in broken murmurs, like the sea's, 

Dying uncomprehended. Still my soul 

Holds faith in man, and in his progress faith ; 

Since not alone 'tis his, but God's. 

Day dawns, 
And with it swell the sounds, afar and near, 
Of lowing cattle and the crowing cocks. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 103 

From farm to farm the wakening signals run, 

And the blue smoke ascends. The sheep, released. 

Leap the low bars and, following their hell, 

Go bleating to the pasture. And, anon, 

The ploughman drives his team into the field, 

And treads the furrow till the horn recalls. 

Meanwhile the kine their generous udders yield, 

And fill the sounding pail, till it o'erruns, 

And drips the path with foam. Then, at the spring, 

The snowy liquid poured in careful rows, 

And on the watery slabs arranged to cool, 

Gleams like a series of full moons. Afar 

The giant forge, at labor 'mid the hills, 

Throbs sullen thunder from its iron heart, 

And 'neath yon poplar, bursting into bloom, 

The lesser anvil rings. While from the cot 

Which on the breezy upland greets the east, 

The windows blazing with the morning red, 

The loom makes answer with its busy beat. 

Look in to-day upon the murmuring school. 
There sits the old man at his wonted desk, 
Round which the scholars stand in crescent rows, 
Class after class, the oldest coming first ; 
Then, gradually descending, till the child 
In russet slip comes tottering to his feet, 
And finds a place upon the knee of Age, 
Where dimpled fingers point the letters wrong, 
Or stray unchided to the master's watch-seals. 
How like a hive, the busy school-house hums ! 
Till comes the hour of recess, when in streams, 
With laughter loud, they pour into the air, 
And join in various games Two desks there are, 
Which hold for all especial charms ; and oft 
The smiling children mark them out, and point 
On one the deep-carved " O." Six times the Spring 
Hath breathed its odors round the sacred place, 
Sinee here the boy engraved the charmed cipher ; 
And yearly the tradition is passed down, 
" There sat Olivia, and here Arthur sat." 
Now bloom the orchards, and the noisy bees 
Sing like a wind among the snowy boughs. 
The occupants of neighboring garden hives 
Are there, in full communities, to mine 
The odorous Eldorado ; and the wasp 
Dropping his long legs, like a flying crane, 
Lights on the flower, and, with his ready sting, 
Threats the intruder. There the humble-bee 
Comes booming, and departs with laden thighs. 
The yellow-jacket, small and full of spite, 
Bedecked in livery of golden lace, 
Comes with the fretful arrogance of one 
Who plays the master, though himself a slave ; 
And over all, the tyrant of the hour, 
The kingbird, hovers, darting on his prey ; 
And takes the ventured argosy of sweets, 2 
Then boasts his conquest on the adjacent branch, 



104 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

"Where, like a pirate hauled against the wind, 

He waits another sail. From limb to limb, 

The birds which here delight to build their nests — 

The bluebird, and the robin, and the small 

Gray woodpecker — now flit among the flowers, 

Until the air is full of life and song, 

As it is full of perfume. Now begins 

The housewife's happiest season of the year. 

The ground already broken by the spade — 

The beds made level by the passing rake — 

The almanac consulted, and the signs 

Conspiring favor — forth with apron full 

Of choicest seeds, the best which last year gave, 

She sallies to the garden, where, all day, 

Breathing the pleasant odor of the mould, 

She bends and plants, while, to her eye of hope, 

Here springs the early pea, and there the bean, 

The lettuce and the radish, and what else 

Her culinary providence requires. 

But chief of all, with careful hands, she sets 

The slips, and bulbs, and seeds which, round each bed, 

Shall make a bright embroidery of flowers. 

Thus the dame Baldwin in her garden bends. 

Meanwhile, Olivia by the mellow air, 

Her winter task of flax not wholly spun, 

Is wooed unto the porch, where at her wheel, 

Where sat her grandam generations since, 

She sits and sings, not loud, but low, until 

The little wren to listen stops his song, 

And wonders on the woodbine. Thus she sings : — 

" A damsel dwelt in a mansion old, 

Her eyes were blue, her hair was blonde ; 

The hills were bright, the sky was gold, 
"Where rose the flaming sun beyond. 

" The red stream of the rising day 
Set all her windows east aglow, 

And on her face the morning ray 
Still stole, as it were loath to go. 

" And there she spun the silver flax, 

But guessed not what the woof would be, 

"While, through her hands of snowy wax, 
The white thread ran incessantly. 

"As fair as any queen, in sooth, 
She toiled and held a noble trust ; 

Her heart had whispered this one truth — 

What work would brighten, sloth would rust. 

" ' There is a loom,' she said, ' receives 
Whatever skeins my reel shall bear ; 

There is a weaver, daily weaves 

The woof which I, perforce, must wear. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 105 

il l And be the thread or coarse or fine, 

The loom is still the sure receiver ; 
Whate'er I spin, the same is mine, 

Keturned in full from Time the weaver !' " 



BOOK SIXTH. 

Along the roads, with busy pick and spade, 

The neighbors gather, and, in cheerful groups, 

Repair the way. Some hold the heavy plough, 

"Which grates and scours along the sandy side, 

Or from the rock rebounds, with sudden jerk, 

Or, caught beneath the deep-laid elm-root, stalls. 

Some fill the gullies which the winter made, 

And with broad shovels smooth the gravelly ground ; 

And all, with frequent jest and laugh, pursue 

Their labor, making holiday of toil ; 

And, when the work is done, turn cheerly home, 

Well pleased to know the yearly tax is paid. 

Now comes the mid-week ; and, from various roads, 

Behold the frequent chaise, with easy jog, 

Taking its tranquil way to yonder grove — 

A grove of Lombard poplars, tall and saint-like — 

And under which the long, low building stands, 

Gray with the touches of a century, — 

A house of meditation and of prayer, 

The favorite temple of meek-handed Peace. 

There meets the calm community of " Friends," 

The old and young, in rigid garb arrayed ; 

The same their grandsires wore, and, in their hope, 

The same their far descendants shall put on, 

Remembering their fathers, and their faith 

And simple piety. The ample brim 

Shades the white patriarchal hair of age, 

And the brown locks of youth. There maidenhood, 

Its gay soul glancing from meek bending eyes, 

"Walks, like the matron, in staid habit dressed. 

How beautiful, in those straight hoods of silk, 

And scrupulous lawns which shield their tender necks, 

The gentle Rachels, Ruths, and Deborahs pass ! 

There oft the Christian virtues come in name, 

And oft in spirit, walking hand in hand — 

Hope cheering Faith, with Charity between. 

But this, alas ! is fading ; year by year 

From out the Quaker chrysalis are born 

The wings which wear the changing hues of fashion; 

And feet, released, forget their ancient thrall, 

And for the late constraint, with lighter tread, 

Lead through the mazes of the intricate dance, 

Imported fresh from foreign capitals. 

Their mission is accomplished ; and the march 

Of this calm band, which, in the van of Peace, 

Walked, conquering with forbearance, 'mid reproach, 

And jeers of ridicule, is o'er ; and now 

The few who still surround the saintly tent, 



106 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

And prop it 'mid the advancements of the time, 

May rest upon the memory of the past. 

Content with its results. The future comes, 

And things, which have been useful in their day, 

Are driven into the bygone realms of old, 

And leave no vestige of their powerful camps. 

The good, which they have wrought, alone survives— 

The form in which it came, departs, and this 

Is undistinguishably merged at last, 

And in the general stream of progress lost. 

New orders come, as old ones take their leave ; 

And " welcome" sounds not oftener than "adieu." 

The streams, which late the storm had overcharged, 
Have fallen, and left the record of their height 
Marked on the woodland trunks ; while here and there, 
"Where obstacles opposed, the muddy drift 
Is lodged to dry, and in the summer sun 
Become the nest of reptiles, and what else 
In such vicinities consort. When comes 
The mantled winter, this may be the haunt 
Of timid rabbits, and the flocking quail ; 
Where oft the hunter, with his dog, shall steal, 
Tracking the knee-deep snow ; and shivering here, 
The children of the poor shall frequent come, 
And tear the tangled drift apart, and bear 
The frozen branch to light their dreary hearth. 
The stream has fallen ; and at the miller's dam, 
The neighbors, by good Master Ethan called, 
Collecting come with crow-bar, pick, and spade, 
And in the breach begin the swift repair. 
How like a miracle the progress is 
Of cheerful labor, wrought by numerous bands 
Working in concert, where the heart and hand 
Conspire, well pleased, to do a generous act ! 
No hope of recompense, which wealth can give, 
Sends such alacrity to hands humane, 
As doth the sense of doing noble duty. 
The day which sees a liberal deed complete, 
A fellow-creature in misfortune helped, 
Palls round the doer, at its evening close, 
With gentle airs and loving dews of peace"; 
Sleep, like an angel, at his pillow sits, 
And charms his lids 'gainst ill-intruding dreams. 

The week draws near its close, and now the school 
Takes wonted holiday. It is a time 
The older children are required at home. 
The wide-mouthed oven must be set a-roar, 
Well filled by such light brush and broken rails 
As fence and woodland yield. These bring the boys, 
Dragging the crackly loads with shouts of glee. 
At home the girls, delighted, tend the babe, 
And teach it by the sliding chair to walk — 
How beautiful to watch their loving care, 
The future mother swelling in their breasts ! 
While those, which date nor yet so young nor old, 
Beneath the orchard crowd the little swing, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 107 

Or in the barn disturb the secret nest. 

Some by the roadside build the mimic house, 

With moss and broken ware set out. Meanwhile 

The busy matron, o'er the floury tray, 

Kneads the huge loaf; or on the snowy board 

Eolls the thin crust, and crimps the juicy pie. 

Then, from the puddle broad, the pan and dish 

Glide grating to the heated cave to bake. 

By noon, the ample tables and the shelves 

Groan with the weight of swollen loaves, embrowned, 

And pies arranged to cool ; and all the air 

Is redolent with the delicious scent 

"Which wakes the appetite with expectation, 

And whets the watery tooth ! 

Prom the warm south 
The whispering breezes flow ; and the calm sky 
Is flecked with shadowy vapors, scarcely clouds, 
Through which the sun rolls lazily and red. 
This Master Ethan notes, and takes his rod — 
For he has heard, for weeks, the whistling swamps, 
A welcome signal to the fisher's ear — 
And, with the feeling fresh as when a youth, 
Makes through the meadow, where the stream invites, 
And to the surface gives the tempting bait. 
And there the well-pleased grandchild bears the string — 
No lore of gentle Walton charms his brain ; 
His art is such as anglers only know 
Who from experience learn to trim the hook 
And swing the whip-like line. The bait is rude ; 
No artificial fly, with golden wing, 
Flits o'er the ripple ; yet, as oft he throws, 
The round chub, whirling on its watery wing, 
Darts through the wave, then flutters on the land. 
Above, below — they will not mar his sport — 
The ploughmen, boisterous from their finished fields, 
With nets relentless scoop the deepest pools, 
And throw the heterogeneous tribes ashore. 
Some whose long task detains them through the day, 
Treading the furrows, when that eve sets in, 
Will come with torch and spear, and wade the stream ; 
Or at the rude boat's prow, beneath the blaze 
Dripping with flaming pitch, with watchful eye 
And steady hand direct the sure harpoon. 

Another week comes in. The Sabbath past, 
The old and young are gathered to the fields. 
Some walk the furrow, and let drop the maize, 
With measured space between ; while some, behind, 
With hoe industrious conceal the grain, 
And form the little mounds, erelong to sprout 
And wave their rustling plumes. This done, behold, 
The hideous shape is throned upon the field ! 
A figure built awry, with outstretched arms, 
And. like a drunkard maudlin, in the wind 
Flutters its rags, and frights the pilfering crow. 

Now blooms the lilac, sweetening all the air ; 
And by the brook the alder ; and the rose, 



108 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Propt at the cottage door with careful hands. 
Bursts its green bud, and looks abroad for May. 
To-morrow, and the smiling month shall come. 
To-morrow ! what delight is in to-morrow ! 
What laughter and what music, breathing joy, 
Float from the woods and pastures, wavering down, 
Dropping like echoes through the long to-day, 
Where childhood waits with weary expectation ! 



BOOK SEVENTH. 

May has come in — youns 

Wearing the sweetest ohaplet of the year. 

Along the eastern corridors she walks, 

What time the clover rocks the earliest bee, 

Her feet a flush with sunrise, and her veil 

Floating in breezy odors o'er her hair; 

And ample garments, fluttering at the hem, 

With pleasing rustle round her sandal-shoon. 

What happy voices wake the rural airs, 

From hill-side homes and valley cottages, 

And every village is alive at dawn ! 

Long ere the dews have winged themselves to heaven, 

In vernal paths the little bands are out, 

Winning their course, with joyous steps and song, 

Until the Oaklands take them to their arms, 

And grove to grove, with loving voice, proclaims 

The gladness which it feels. Before the sun 

Hath burnt the western shadows from his dial, 

Olivia and Amy through the shade 

Walk in their snowy garments of the time, 

O'er which the flickering sunshine, through the boughs 

Dances amid innumerous phantom leaves, 

Chasing those lovely forms where'er they go, 

And starring them with brightness. Arm in arm, 

They print the tender mosses, and disturb 

The broad-leafed mandrake, bending here and there 

To pluck the violets peering through the leaves ; 

Or those small woodland flowers, so delicate 

That fancy deems them the exotic blooms 

Of fairy gardens, planted in the night, 

And nurtured by the moon. With converse sweet, 

And confidence which young hearts only know — 

So pure themselves, they have not guessed how deep 

The world is lored in treachery — they each 

To each repeat the secrets of their loves. 

Beneath yon whispering maple in the lawn — 
A dainty lawn in middle of the woods — 
The May-day groups are gathered, and from there 
The air comes laden with the breath of mirth ; 
And Amy and Olivia, in delight, 
Withhold their steps, and gaze between the trees — 
'Twixt shadowy vistas of huge mossy trunks 
And drooping vines — and watch the floating forms, 
Now seen, now hid, like stars 'mid broken clouds, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 109 

All wildly dancing 'neath their scented wreaths, 

As they the embodied spirits were of flowers. 

And presently, ascending to her throne, 

One lovely maid for coronation mounts. 

And thus, along the gladdened air, is borne 

The song which greets her and proclaims her queen : — 



" We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses, 

Dewy as the morning and colored like the dawn ; 
Little tents of odor, where the bee reposes, 

Swooning in sweetness of the bed he dreams upon. 
Eoses, fresh roses, from the young Spring borrowed, 

To bind round your tresses where the zephyr loves to play. 
Smile, gentle princess, while your snowy forehead 

Takes the sweet coronal which crowns you queen of May ! 
Roses, fresh roses, 
"Which crown you queen of May ! 

" "We bring violets, the purple and the azure, 

"Which bloomed at the coming of the bluebird's wizard wing, 
To greet your dear presence they oped their eyes of pleasure, 

Then bowed, and they wept that you came not first of spring. 
Yiolets, sweet violets, we plucked from April's bosom, 

The last which he smiled upon before he passed away ; 
And thus round your forehead shall fairy bud and blossom 

Shine in the coronal which crowns you queen of May ! 
Violets, sweet violets, 
"Which crown you queen of May ! 

11 "We bring daisies, little starry daisies, 

The angels have planted to remind us of the sky. 
"When the stars have vanished they twinkle their 'mute praises, 

Telling, in the dewy grass, of brighter fields on high. 
Daisies, bright daisies, to gleam around your tresses, 

Until your brow shall shine like the dawning of the day ; 
And thus, as the coronal your lovely forehead presses, 

We bow to your sceptre, and we hail you queen of May ! 
Daisies, bright daisies. 
Which crown you queen of May J" 

Thus fly the hours to youthful fancy dear. 

Now, midway in the afternoon, the sun 

Descends upon his poised and flaming wing, 

Looking aslant the earth ; and still 

The voice of joy, with simple music joined, 

Thrills through the grove, which not to childhood only 

Yields up its vernal spaces, but to youths 

And maidens, who come gayly flocking in, 

And round the rustic viol reel the dance. 

There trusting Amy greets a welcome hand, 

And, hearkening to the voice she loves, floats down • 

From sun to shadow in bewildering maze. 

The woods swim round, the trees with linked hands 

Whirl through the music and the misty light, 

With giant gesture and half-human smile, 

Swaying as to a wind. And thus the maid, 



110 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Clasped by the arm of love, forgets the world. 

Alone Olivia strolls beyond the place, 

Seeking in unfrequented paths the quiet 

Her soul desires — communing with itself; 

And following her heart, which fondly leads, 

She finds the sacred places where, in days 

Long gone, she walked with Arthur at her side. 

Here was the spot where from the summer school, 

"When childish liking heralded their love, 

They wandered, and from honeysuckle boughs 

Gathered nectarean fruit. Here was the place 

They walked beside the brook, and gayly plucked 

The spiry rushes which, with rustic art, 

They wove in little baskets ; such as held 

The handful of wild berries, after gleaned, 

From vines which stole beneath the meadow grass, 

Or at the briery fence-side grew. Here was the scene — 

Dear heart, be calm ! — where, 'neath these sheltering limbs, 

When the broad poplar filled his cups of gold — 

"Where every wandering wind and pilgrim bee 

Drank, and, departing, boasted of the draught — 

Her ear had caught the low first words of love, 

Her hand had felt the first declaring pressure ; 

And now, as then, she leans against the tree. 

Her hair escaping glides unto her shoulder ; 

From out its folds the wild flowers, like her tears, 

Drip noiseless and unnoted to the ground. 

The sun descends ; the long and level ray 

Kisses the maiden's shoulder, and glides up, 

Flaming a little in the poplar's top ; 

Then, lighting on a fleecy cloud o'erhead, 

Burns, fades, and dies as embers in the ashes. 



BOOK EIGHTH. 

The spring departs ; and, in her speeding haste, 

Chased by a swarm of murmuring winds and bees, 

Scatters the withered lilacs as she flies. 

The bluebird mourns for her ; the russet wren 

Leads out its young, to see her ere she leaves. 

Her hands are full of garlands, some abloom, 

Some budding, and some dead. With floating hair 

Thus fled Ophelia in her frenzied hour ; 

And, like Ophelia, from her willow branch, 

Spring, singing, falls into the lilied pool, 

And in the crystal stream of summer drowns. 

The heavens a little weep above her form, 

"What time she floats adown into the past, 

Till June, full blown and blooming, like her rose, 

Comes laughing in beneath the rainbow arch. 

It is the season when the stormy hive 
Gives forth the noisy whirlwind of its swarm, 
Which swings awhile above its ancient home, 
With whirrings louder than a housewife's wheel, 
And warns the dame of their intended flight; 
When forth she sallies, all aglow with fear 



THE NEW PASTORAL. HI 

And anxious hope, and on the sounding pan 
Beats like a maniac drummer in mid-battle, 
Filling the air with wild, discordant noise, 
Until, for thus her rustic fancy deems, 
The guiding voice of the great sovereign bee 
Is drowned amid the tumult. Then, perforce, 
Their further flight is stayed ; and on a limb, 
"With layer o'er layer, they settle till the branch 
Droops with the black, impending weight ; and then 
The ready hive receives the living mass. 
Or, if too late the ringing pan assails, 
Behold the swift and winding line, afar, 
Flies warping on the sun-illumined air, 
And mocks the disappointed eye, until 
Amid the distant forest-boughs it sweeps, 
And, like a veil entangling, clings and lights 
Too high to be regained. Then, in some tree, 
Some hollow oak, or beech, or sycamore, 
Driving the astonished squirrel from his home, 
They fix their habitation, and at once 
Fill up their waxen garners with the sweets 
The woodland blossoms and the clover yield ; 
And little reck how, in the autumnal hour, 
The assailing axe shall come, and sulphurous smoke 
. Besiege their woody citadel, until 
Invading hands usurp their winter store. 

Now have the flocks been driven unto the brook, 
And bathed to snowy whiteness 'gainst their will ; 
And, bleating oft beneath the clipping shears, 
Have yielded up the fleece. The meadow fields 
Are waving in the sunshine like a sea ; 
A billowy deep, whose flowers are like a foam — 
And all abroad, behold the busy throng 
Of those who swing the clover, as a froth 
From seething scythes into the sidelong swath, 
And sharp their blades with many a shrill che-whet. 
The air is full of perfume. Following these, 
With laugh and song, gay youths, with glittering prongs, 
Shake out the scented masses to the sun, 
Until the noon beholds the fields half mown, 
And from the hill-side calls the mid-day horn. 
Some bands there are, in harvest plains remote, 
Who hearken not the conch's announcing call ; 
But pass into the oak or poplar's shade, 
And on the branch suspend the glittering scythes, 
Which hang vibrating ; then the circle draw — 
The grass alike their table and their seat — 
While well-stored baskets furnish forth the meal. 
The spring near by its costal tribute gives, 
And deals its freshness through the rustic gourd. 

When now the grass, oft turned beneath the sun, 
Is dry and crisp, and rustles to the tread, 
Then comes the rake, with many a long-drawn sweep, 
Gleaning the shaven mead, until the plain, 
Rough with the sultry stacks, appears a field 
Thick set with russet tents. And thus it stands 



112 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Until the wagons, drawn by horse or yoke 

Of easy oxen, with slow swaying gait, 

Their large eyes dreaming o'er the rolling cud, 

Convey the winter store unto the barn. 

Then what wild laughter tills the heated mow, 

"Where boyhood treads the sweltering waves of hay, 

Climbing the encroaching billows as they roll, 

Till like a tide it swells along the roof, 

Molesting wasps and swallows I — swells and swells, 

Till the marauding child, with curious eye, 

Thrusts his adventurous hand into the nest — 

The highest in the grooved rafters lodged — 

And finds but fragments of the tender shell, 

"Which crumble in his fingers, while outside 

The parent bird darts laughing its derision. 

Behold yon shape which, down the dusty road, 
Comes marvellously large ! It is a form 
To frighten childhood from its wayside play ; 
At whose approach the household mastiff barks, 
And, barking, to his kennel shrinks afraid. 
It is the peddler, bending 'neath his load, 
Like mighty Samson with the Gaza gates, 
Or Atlas with the world. His monthly round 
Once more hath brought him to these quiet homes. 
Once more he lets the monster pack descend, 
Straightens his shoulders, and unbinds the straps, 
And shows the housewife the enticing store. 
Long time she looks, yet shakes the cautious head, 
Swaying 'twixt prudence and desire. Meanwhile 
The children crowd, with wondering eyes, to see 
The motley heap, with fingers oft offending, 
And often chid ; while, at her apron, one 
Clings timidly, and nears, by gradual steps, 
As wonder gains the mastery of fear. 
W T ith artful words the petty merchant spreads 
The various show ; now smooths the glossy silk, 
And holds it to the light aslant ; or, dropped 
To lengthened folds, displaj's the embryo skirt. 
There the white lace and there the ribbons gleam, 
"Which light the maiden's eye. The vender's wit, 
Catching at every favorable sign, 
Still pours persuasion from his ready tongue ; 
And, in the face of many a stubborn u No," 
Lightens his pack and bleeds the matron's purse. 



BOOK NINTH. 

But this is past, and dies the cloudless day. 
How solemnly and calm the evening falls 
Around the rural scene ! One burning bar 
Along the shadowy western hill-top flames, 
And, like the blazing iron upon an anvil, 
Sinks to a cooler red, and darkly fades, 
Leaving the vale to twilight. Charmed hour ! 
Now fall the dews, of which the blossoms drink 



THE NEW PASTORAL. H3 

Deep opiate draughts, till, nodding on their stems, 
"Within their scented mantles folded close, 
They dream till morn. The sounds of day are done ; 
Innumerous tongues, which only wake at eve, 
Resume, till night is tilled with various notes 
"Which start the inmost fancy into flight, 
Touching the pleasing chords of melancholy, 
Until the heart holds sympathy, perforce, 
"With all the dusk invisible. Above, 
The dreary night-hawk wheels on mournful wings, 
Like some doomed spirit seeking for its mate, 
And pours his bitter wail. Within the deep, 
Impenetrable sorrow of the woods, 
Like one in weeds, with knotted chords of grief 
Scourging his heart until it shrieks its woe, 
The whippoorwill lifts up its direful voice. 
While, like a demon jeering at their pain, 
The owl makes answer with his scornful laugh. 
These are sad sounds ; and unto Amy's heart — 
Although her lover's arm is at her waist, 
While their slow feet together brush the path, 
Sweeping the shadowy pasture near the grove — 
They have a voice prophetic which half drowns 
The joy it is her spirit's wont to hear ; 
And on the wayside grass, methinks, unseen, 
One tear-drop more than pensive evening weeps 
Is shed. They tell us angels, good and ill, 
Attend our steps, to guide or to mislead ; 
If such be true, with what imploring words, 
And clasped hands, and piteous gaze of eyes, 
The one oft speaks that would persuade aright, 
And in the hour by us securest deemed 
Whispers its fears and warns ; the while the other, 
With smiles assuring safety, strews the path 
With flowers which lead but to a field of thorns! 
If this indeed be true, the instinctive tear, 
The shudder, or each inward faint recoil, 
Springing we know not whence, should be a voice 
To stay the swiftest step — should be a bolt 
Transfixing where we stand — a giant rock 
Rising, like sudden gates of adamant, 
To bar our further course ! Alas ! too oft 
We lay our hand on the good angel's lip, 
And murmur " Peace," whence peace alone can flow ; 
And list the alluring tongue, whose sweeter words 
Pour in the soul the airs which yet shall wake 
The howling storm of discord. " Take this chain" — 
So speaks a voice, the while a heated cheek 
Flames at her own — " and wear it for my sake." 
Then, with a smile, he drops it on her neck ; 
While in her hand a locket, like an ember, 
Glows as the wide moon stares above the east — 
Stares, like a ghost, across the maiden's shoulder. 
Gazing with Amy on the lover's picture. 
Long time she looks, and then, with trembling care, 
Within her bosom hides the image dear ; 
10* 



114 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Where on her breast, with wide and stolid eyes, 
It lies and warms against her beating heart, 
Swaying to each emotion, while the moon 
A moment glides behind a fleecy vapor, 
And floods it into whiteness like a shroud. 

Olivia, with her little taper's light, 
Looks from her chamber window to the east — 
Looks long with mingled feelings, chiefly hope ; 
And when a star aslant the zenith drops, 
A sigh from out her heart responds, and then 
A vision of her gentle friend and lover 
Kises ; and now amid the May-day groups, 
She once more watches where the reeling dance 
Whirls their light forms along, from sun to shade. 
So swift is thought that, ere the meteor line 
Has faded but a moment from across 
The rising constellation, in her breast 
The name of Arthur questions every star ; 
What time each lifts its silvery brow to sight, 
And gazes o'er th' horizon's woody bar ; — 
What news it brings from out the Orient, 
What tidings it hath carried in its heart, 
Which not the loud pervading sea could drown, 
Or time or distance mar? What words of love, 
What longing westward looks, from those dear lips 
And faithful eyes, of one who travels far ? 
And when the pillow holds her golden hair, 
She hears the happiest sounds which charm the night 
But chiefly, from afar, the flashing stream 
Which rustles o'er the breastwork at the mill 
With ceaseless music. I Often — oh, how oft — 
By that same sound hath Arthur's ear been soothed 
Till slumber weighed with melody his lids ! 
And sympathizing with the sacred vision 
Her fancy sees, the while his name in prayer 
Passes, and yet seems lingering on her lips, 
A gentle dream before her spirit steals, 
Closing the doors of sleep upon her soul. 



BOOK TENTH. 

What sounds are these which thrill the morning star, 

Hailing the advancing banner of the sun, 

While now the herald dawn, with backward hair, 

Inflates his winding horn, and wakes the day, 

Speeding across the hill-tops ? Hark, the roll 

Of distant cannon rumbling through the sky, 

As if a huge triumphal car, in haste, 

Were rolling and resounding through the streets 

Of some glad city welcoming its return ; 

While lesser sounds of bells and rattling guns 

Swell the rejoicing hour I It is the day 

When Independence celebrates her birth — 

The Jubilee of Freedom yearly kept 1 

A nation rising from its rest secure ; 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 115 

A nation which hath never worn a crown ; 
A land which hath not held a throne, or felt 
The foot of king, or seen his purple robe, 
Sends up its voice, with one loud shout of joy, 
"Which starts the eagle of the Nor'most lake, 
And wakes the Mexic gulf — while on his shore 
The Atlantic hears, and his eternal head 
Lifts, and prolongs the sound — till in the West, 
On stretching sands, in many an unknown bay, 
'Mid shadowy slumber the Pacific smiles, 
Catching the cadence as it dies, and dreams 
Of Freedom's cities rising on his coast, 
And navies showing Liberty her flag ! 
It is a sound to flush the patriot's breast, 
And drive the color from the tyrant's cheek ; 
Where on his olden and decaying throne, 
He, stands agaze, and, staring o'er the sea, 
Wonders ; and, with a nervous hand of haste, 
Presses the weighty crown upon his brow, 
And grasps the sceptre his amaze hath loosed, 
Assuring him a king ! Long be the day 
Remembered, and awaked with shouts, as now ! 

From every home the gladsome people pour ; 
O'er woods and" fields resound the drum and fife ; 
And presently the flaming banners, rich 
With golden mottoes and with silver stars. 
Along the highway set ablaze the air : 
As in the hour when wildly on the sky 
They wrote in words of fire the despot's fall, 
Dazzling his dull uncomprehending eye 
With " weighed and wanting /" till the interpreter, 
The father of a grateful country, came 
And read the "Upharsin" to his startled ear ! 

With one accord, the various cottage-homes 
Pour down the paths and highways to the town — 
The village on the white and dusty road — 
Their several habitants. The young and old, 
Each bent on pleasing and on being pleased, 
Are ranged into procession, two by two, 
While many a jest and laugh run down the line. 
Across the pasture, winding to the grove, 
All follow, to the measure of that tune 
W^hich first had birth upon Derision's lips, 
Till Victory heard, and with exulting tongue 
Echoed the notes, that, hallowed by her voice, 
Henceforth became an anthem for a nation ! 

Already the rude table's giant length 
Stretches beneath the embowering limbs, and scents 
The fragrant air with pine. Adjacent, see 
The speaker's rostrum — rough, as suits the time, 
And strong — where, caught aloft in smooth festoons, 
Two silken banners of the stripes and stars, 
With friendly points of glittering spear-heads crossed, 
Delight the enthusiast's eye. Anon. 
'Mid shouts, the leaders take the stand ; and now 
The parson pours the solemn thankful prayer, 



HG THE NEW PASTORAL. 

The gratitude which every freeman feels. 
Then rises Master Ethan, tall and frail, 
And clearly, with well-modulated voice, 
Heads the great '-'•Declaration''' to the end. 
"Whereat a long huzza, from every heart, 
Shakes the deep welkin, while the boughs between 
Murmur afar, and each astonished bird 
Drops in the trees and listens. Then arises 
The song which every tongue delights to swell. 
This past, the fiery speech inflames the hour, 
Oft interrupted by the loud applause ; 
And with a loving ardor lingers long 
O'er scenes our grandsires, in the years agone — 
"What time they held us charmed upon their knees- 
Pictured unto our childish eyes, until 
The little soul, to patriot's teaching true, 
Rose up in arms and waved the mimic sword. 
Then comes the plenteous feast, with stated toasts, 
And music and gay song between. And now, 
In brimming cups the amber cider flows, 
Sparkling and sweet, smelling of autumn brown; 
Three years apast from out the creaking press 
It streamed, and now full ripe and rich it glows 
In cooling pitchers, starred and streaked with dew 
Or paler beverage, where the citron swims, 
Yielding the acid from its severed sphere, 
And shedding odors of the melting South, 
So nectarine, the wasp attracted comes, 
An armed republican, and tastes the cup 
Ere the libation, at the waiting mouth, 
Is pledged to Liberty. 



BOOK ELEVENTH. 

Thus flies the hour. 
Meanwhile, O Muse, withdraw awhile apart, 
And note yon figure bending in the woods. 
It is the dame of Oakland gathering herbs — 
Here plucking liverwort, and there the rank 
Hot stems of pennyroyal — and, anon, 
With crooked fingers, in the easy mould, 
Digging the sinuous snake-root, and what else 
Her curious knowledge finds. In bundles tied, 
These all must at her odorous ceiling hang, 
To dry 'mid swinging sheaves of various mint, 
Plucked from the garden and the brook ; with sage, 
Savoring of Christmas, and wild chamomile, 
With bitterer tansy, and the virtuous barks 
Of elm and sassafras ; with much beside, 
Shedding perpetual perfume round the joists, 
Forgot, or to the muse unknown. She kneels ; 
And, as she gathers, mumbles words, unheard, 
Whose import none may know except those forms 
Invisible which bend the attentive ear, 
And catch the faintest breathings of the soul ; 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 117 

Interpreting the murmurs of a child, 

The honeyed accents swarming at its lips, 

And the low blended, toothless sounds of age. 

Not long she bends when, with a tongue uncouth, 

The round Distiller, all aglow with heat, 

Comes fuming like his still ; for he hath strode 

Throughout the morn across the stretching lands, 

Armed with the heavy hickory which he wears, 

To note if, in the all-exulting hour, 

A foot should dare to trespass on his grounds. 

Thus, ever, the bad man is seen abroad 

Grudging the innocent joy, which others feel, 

Impossible to him ; while jealousy, 

Within the envious precincts of his heart, 

Suggests the wicked act, and, with a smile, 

Gloats o'er the cruelty ere it is done. 

The fairest landscape may not mould a heart; 

A niggard in his palace still is mean ; 

And cruelty may native be to scenes 

"Whose loveliness might move another's tears. 

See how his set teeth grind in base delight, 

And how he strikes from side to side, and beats 

A fancied culprit at each blow ! He speaks : — 

" What bring'st thou, hag, to trespass on these grounds ? 

What stealest thou within these woods forbid?" 

To which the woman, rising on her staff: — 

" I gather simples that thou know'st not of: 

Here's this to cool, and here is this which gives 

A generous heat when ague numbs the heart. 

Oh, I can find all plants, and roots, and barks, 

Which Nature's storehouse yields. I know them all ; 

And, better than } r our school-diploma'd leech, 

Can I prescribe the antidote of ills 

Which fire or freeze the blood ; but in my art, 

I do avow 'fore Heaven, I know no power 

Of herb to cool a feverish temper vile, 

Or thaw the starving ague of a soul J" 

To which the man, with lifted cane, replies: — 

" Hence, with a bridle on thy tongue, or else 

Beware the weight of this !" When thus the dame, 

Shaking her skinny finger o'er her staff: — 

" Once came a beggar to a rich man's gate, 

Asking the crumbs which from his table fell ; 

He was refused — perchance thou know'st the rest. 

These simples, to the fulness of thy land, 

Are less than were the crumbs beneath that table. 

All these untended here, self-planted, grow 

From year to year, and custom's long consent 

Hath yielded them to serve the general use. 

I do not trespass, and I do not steal ; 

Nor shalt thou say it unrebuked. These grounds, 

They are not thine save by a legal lie, 

Stolen b}' trick, or bought with devils' blood — 

I mean the poison dripping from yon still — 

And might the wronged man from his coffin rise, 

And, with the widow and the orphan, tell 



118 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

The baseness of thy cunning, the dull ear 

Of common justice should be stunned and pained, 

And the loud public tongue cry out thy shame, 

And retribution, like a bolt of fire 

Amid the thunder, fall." E'en as she speaks, 

She seems to rise above her wonted height ; 

Her gray locks falling take the passing breeze, 

Her eyes indignant flame, and on her lip 

Scorn sits supreme, and mocks the lifted cane. 

Meanwhile the blood to the distiller's brow 

Mounts with swift madness, and his whole broad face 

Burns like a furnace by the bellows blown. 

" Hence, witch !" he cries ; and reeling from his aim, 

With a loud shriek of oaths, he strikes the air, 

And striking falls, foaming at mouth, convulsed 

The apoplectic blood, inflamed, hath drowned 

His brain ; and there, with horrible distort 

Of face and frame, he clutching tears the ground. 

These are rough touches, but they give the life, 

The scars and moles which make the picture true. 

And thus he lies until a sauntering group, 

Which presently comes by, in wonder stops ; 

And takes the fallen man in charge, and bears 

Him writhing home. The dame, with musing voice, 

Speaks as they go, and they may hear who will — 

" Twice hath the mad ox grovelled in the dust, 

Dragged by the dogs of anger; when again 

The}' take him to the earth, he shall not rise." 

And now once more she kneels above her task, 

And, digging, traces the eccentric root. 



BOOK TWELFTH. 

Let us descend afar the summer road, 

And note how in the crowded mart is kept 

The sacred day. Along the harvest fields, 

Throughout the stretching valley, smokes the air 

With a long line of the impending dust, 

Sultry and thick, until the Sunday garb 

Of smoothest black becomes a suit of gray, 

And the deep standing grain beside the road 

Bows low with the collecting weight ; while feet 

Innumerous are plumping in the dust, 

Deep as the fetlocks, as it were a snow ; 

And flying wheels fling from their tires and spokes 

Invisible the choking cloud. Behold the inn, 

Midway between the village and the town, 

Where waves the starry flag across the way, 

Swung from the house-top to the opposing tree, 

A silken arch of triumph. O'er the porch 

Swarm out and in, like bees about a hive, 

The noisy people whom the keeper greets 

With smile incessant and unfailing joke. 

Lo, how the hot air reeks with the perfume 

Of crushing mint, in potent glasses drowned, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 119 

And smoke of Cuban weed ; or, stronger yet, 

Of rank plant cultured in Kentuckian fields. 

From either side the high and pendulous sign 

The painted eagle looks, with spreading wings, 

As if to sentinel the coming guest. 

But 'neath his shade, with an unchecking rein, 

Behold yon party pass ! Olivia there, 

Between her parents, sits with glowing cheeks. 

Thus ride they on until, beyond the hill, 

In the far smoky landscape, winding slow, 

They catch with eager gaze the silvery line 

Of tranquil Delaware ; so distance-veiled, 

The eye, unaided, scarcely notes the sail 

Brooding in middle of receding plains. 

Then bursts the glowing city on the view ; 

Waking a pleasurable sense which none 

So deep in soul can feel as they who bring 

The mind well stored with rural lore, and wear 

At heart the freshness of the summer fields. 

Thus, in lost ages of the long ago, 

The rustic swains, girded with simple skins, 

From Carmel's side or cedared Lebanon, 

Beheld the gorgeous city at their feet, 

What time the yearly festival enticed, 

Its thousand banners swelling on the wind, 

And every breeze with music jubilant, 

And gates all wide. Or thus the pilgrim band, 

Aweary with long travel, sore of feet, 

Turning some point of the Abruzzian mount, 

Beholds the plain, and Tiber winding dim, 

And the long stretch of ancient aqueducts, 

Striding like caravans the blue champaign; 

Till, lo ! the Roman capital appears, 

Crowned with the dome which crowns the world ! Anon, 

The Schuylkill, sacred to the barge of mirth, 

Its green banks consecrate to pleasure's paths, 

Winds into sight with many a silvery curve; 

And at the breastwork, with a ceaseless voice, 

Bustles the music which its waters learned, 

On mountain wilds remote, where Carbon's hills 

Hear in their inmost heart the miner's stroke. 

Behold the mound by art and nature reared, 

" Fairmount !" in whose tall top the waters lie 

Lifted as in a great baptismal font ; 

The height from whence the river deity 

Pours, from his giant and refreshing urn, 

The stream which slakes a grateful city's thirst. 

But fancy this ; for yet no statue there, 

Worthy the place, above his liquid task 

Stands to the four winds, beautiful and bright, 

Gazing upon the city which he laves, 

While the glad city gazes back to him. 

Oh ! wherefore rises not the marble pile 

Above this green and consecrated height? 

Not one, but many, one above the rest, 

Looking like Alleghany o'er his hills. 



120 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Lo, how it bathes unnumbered miles of streets — 
A great heart pulsing through far crystal veins — 
"Where, but a few short generations since, 
The Indian stretched his lazy sombre length, 
And the red deer stooped, undeterred, and drank, 
Or, 'neath the chestnut or the walnut shade, 
Cropped the rank grass at leisure. At the bridge, 
The horses sudden tramp the sounding planks ; 
Where passes oft the Conestoga team, 
Kinging its own announcement of approach, 
"With shoulder-shaken bells — a monster wain, 
Slow, rumbling, and which oft in winter sends 
The shrilly creak from frosty wheels afar. 

How the white noon awakes to the report 
Of all explosive engines known to man, 
From the sharp cracker to the roaring bass 
Of cannon, answering from square to square ! 
At every proclamation shaking earth, 
And rattling every window ; while the scent 
Of wasted powder loads each breath inhaled, 
As in some town resisting when besieged. 
From street to street the party takes its waj 7- , 
Gazing on the procession as they pass 
"With wondering admiration. There they see, 
In costly uniform, the shining troops 
Of armed volunteers ; or there the long, 
Proud lines of labor, honoring their trades, 
Parading with bright banners ; and the stout, 
Brave firemen decked in helmet and in cape — 
A conflagration pictured upon each — 
Their costly engine wreathed about with flowers — 
Drawing as 'twere a conqueror's car. No day, 
Of all the year, is so alive as this ; 
No other day hath this calm city been 
So driven from staid propriety, and waked 
To such wild, joyous riot ; save that time 
"When youthful feet ran boundless through the streets, 
To fix the childish gaze on one who came 
"Welcomed with honor's highest, last excess — 
The honor only rivalled by the love — 
Taking his glorious way with roses strewn, 
And under endless bannered arches, starred 
"With one proud name, still sacred — " La Fayette I" 

And still the party wander down the street, 
Oft gazing on the snowy marble pile ; 
Or stroll into the crowded squares, and walk 
Beneath the shade of ancient forest-trees, 
Greeting them all as friends. Oh, wherefore, ye 
"Who hold the welfare of the town at heart, 
And wield its destinies, will ye behold 
The city, with its hot and rapid feet, 
Trample the woods and blight the fields ; nor leave 
One ampler space where, on a day like this, 
The thankful throng may walk abroad, and feel 
The pleasure which it is to breathe the air 
Which, unimpeded by the heated walls, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 121 

Takes health and freshness from the leaves it stirs, 
And gives to whom inhales ? Nor yet too late, 
While those wide spaces — full of sun and shade, 
And antique trees, with daily trembling filled 
And apprehension of the approaching axe — 
O'er Schuylkill spread their asking arms, and call 
Aloud for your protection. Ere the street, 
With frequent ringing of the builder's trowel, 
Usurps their quiet depth, go boldly forth ; 
And, with your powerful wand of office, draw 
The boundary line which none shall dare invade. 
And every tree, thus rescued, when the crowds 
Of future generations walk beneath, 
Shall whisper to their grateful ears your name ; 
And be a vernal monument, each year, 
Renewing: honor to the rescuer. 



BOOK THIRTEENTH. 

Here, stranger, stay ! This is the sacred spot 

Which knew the patriots in the years agone. 

Here trod the noblest form the land has known ; 

Here swelled the stateliest soul e'er form has held ; 

And here— nor here alone,' but round the world, 

And throughout heaven — my faith will have it so — 

The name most loved is spoken, and rolls on 

Revered by freemen, and by angels breathed, 

And trembling oft upon the lips of slaves, 

Brightening their dream of hope. Still to our hearts 

Let the great name of Washington be dear ; 

And faithful as the star is to the night, 

Or as Niagara to his cataract true, 

Let the increasing stream of praise be poured 

From off a nation's tongue. This is the spot : 

Here is the hallowed hall where bravely met 

Freedom's stout conclave, pledging lives and honor; 

And this the terrrace, looking to the square, 

"Where Liberty's apostle, all aglow 

With the wild ardor of the hour, came forth, 

And, to the applauding patriot crowd without, 

Read the great chart ere yet the names were dry. 

This is the place : and there, upon the step, 

Behold, where sits yon figure scarred and gray, 

His stout staff taking palsy from his hand, 

And shaking on the door-stone. Here, once more, 

He pays the yearly visit to the spot, 

And lives in memory all the glorious past ; 

And thus unto the group of listeners gives 

The visions of gone days, as one by one 

They rise before his spiritual eye. 

" Lo, now the cannon thundering to the sky, 
The thickening fumes that scent the heated air, 

Recall the camp, and spread before mine eye 
The pitch of battle and the triumph there. 
11 



122 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

u The summoned ploughman grasps the ready gun, 
And swiftly strides across the furrowed sod ; 

The smith, ere half the heated shoe is done, 
Swings on in haste, and rides the steed unshod. 

" The mason flings his glittering trowel by, 
And leaves behind the pale and weeping few ; 

The miller's wheel above the stream hangs dry, 
"While o'er the hill he waves the swift adieu. 

" Lo, all the air is throbbing to the drum ; 

In every highway sounds the shrilly fife ; 
And flashing guns proclaim afar they come, 

Where hurried banners lead the way to strife. 

" Though rude the music, and the arms are rude, 
And rustic garments fill the motley line, 

Yet noble hearts, with noble hopes imbued, 
Thrill through the ranks with energy divine, — 

" Thrill through the ranks until those sounds become 
Celestial melodies from Freedom's lips ! 

These arms an engine to strike despots dumb, 
And leave oppression howling in eclipse. 

il Then comes the struggle, raging loud and long — 
The seven years' battle with the banded foes — 

The tyrant, and the savage, and the strong 
Grim arm of want with all its direst woes. 

" Half clad and barefoot, bleeding where they tread, 
Where hunger and disease allied consort, 

The pale survivors stand among their dead, 

And brave the winter in their snow-walled fort. 



Than all the ills which winter's hand commits, 
The bitter thought that at the sacred hearth 
Of unprotected homes some horror sits. 

" But God is just ; and they who suffer most 
Win most; for tardy triumph comes at last! 

The patriot, bravely dying at his post, 
Hath rivalled all the Caesars of the past. 

" Right conquers Wrong, and glory follows pain, 
The cause of Freedom vindicated stands ; 

And heaven consents ; while, staring o'er the main, 
Old Europe greets us with approving hands. 

lt If now a film o'erswim my aged gaze, 

Or if a tremor in my voice appear, 
It is the memory of those glorious days 

Which moves my failing frame and starts the tear. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 123 

" Oh, on this sacred spot again to rest, 

Where passed the patriots, ere this old heart faints ! 

Then I depart, with a contented breast, 

Where they are walking crowned among the saints. 

" Here on these steps, made holy by their tread, 

I list their kindling voices as of yore ; 
And hear that bell, now hanging speechless, dead, 

Which rung for Freedom, broke, and rung no more. 

" Broke with the welcome tidings on its tongue, 

Broke, like a heart, with joy's excessive note ! 
'Tis well no cause less glorious e'er hath rung 

In silver music from its hallowed throat." 



BOOK FOUKTEENTH. 

Behold the river, wide, respiring, vast, 

Swelling and falling, answering to the main. 

Here rise and sink the multitudinous ships, 

Swaying in slumberous ease, where every flag 

Known to a Christian sky salutes the air. 

How the brown cordage like a net-work spreads, 

A monster web entangling leafless pines ! 

From this same wharf, down dropping with the tide, 

Went Arthur, when he bade his last adieu — 

AVhile the great bay, as usherer to the sea, 

Unto the ocean's awful presence led — 

There stands the maid in secret musing held, 

While from the charmed fountains of her soul 

The longing tear upwells. The sun descends ; 

And like a startling meteor in the sky, 

The whizzing rocket streaks the twilight air, 

And curving up the azure deep afar, 

Explodes with muffled sound, and lights the eve 

With momentary stars of various hue. 

In swift succession how they soar and burst, 

Answered from all the quarters of the town, 

Till oft the sky is full of falling lights ; 

As on that memorable autumn night, 

When rained the heavens a thick meteoric shower, 

Puzzling the wise astronomers at watch, 

And shaking many a sturdy soul with fear, 

Till superstition, with affrighted voice, 

Proclaimed the day of doom. From yon green isle, 

Which like a war-ship on the water lies, 

The arrowy signals chiefly fly ; while come 

The joyous habitants and crowd the wharves, 

The ships, the ferries, barges and bateaux, 

And skiffs that glide between, while every house 

From base to roof o'erflows. And now the night, 

While every face unto the island looks, 

Falls deeply down ; and all the curious stars 

People the dark, and, crowding group o'er group, 



124 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Gaze from the shadowy terraces of heaven, 

And wonder at the fires that mock their light. 

Hark, the loud rattle, like artillery ! 

And note the phantom lustre on each face, 

Swift changing through the iris scale of hues, 

Most strange and beautiful, thrown from yon wheel, 

Which from its flails of fire flings the light sparks 

Like chaff upon the air, with whirrings loud, 

While admiration flies from face to face. 

Nor this alone ; wheel after wheel is fired, 

Whirling continuous, discharging lights 

Innumerous as summer dust ; until 

Behold the flaming chariot appears, 

A swift triumphal car ablaze with gems, 

And flying through a crowd of welcoming roses, 

Where Liberty a starry goddess rides, 

While o'er her head her favorite eagle sails 

On guardian wings of fire. And suddenly 

A temple lifts its constellated front, 

Swinging its great arch, drawn in blazing lines, 

Athwart the dark with architecture strange, 

Inspiring, grand ; as if the stars of heaven 

Should sweep together, clustering into form, 

To show the world the dome where Freedom dwells. 

And lo ! the glorious vision in the tide 

Inverted hangs in wavering lines of light : 

Such is the pyrotechnist's art. And now 

The sky vibrates with the prolonged applause ; 

The lights die out; the night resumes its sway, 

While peace and silence close the festive gates. 

Olivia, wear}^, to her pillow strange 
Kesigns her cheek, while through her wakeful brain 
The visions of the day, in clear review, 
Pass one by one, and fright the wings of sleep. 
Hour after hour, the watchman's sounding tread 
And solemn voice alarm the sinking lid, 
And wake the thought afresh ; till, presently, 
The whirling rattle and the startling cry 
Of " fire !" too frequent heard, disturb the town, 
Breaking the charm of midnight ; while reply 
From spire and tower the wild and direful bells, 
Directing with their strokes the engines' course, 
Which now fly thundering to assail the blaze, 
And soon to conquer. Kising on the sky, 
Destruction's banner, like a boreal light, 
Dilates and brightens, till the maiden's room, 
Though safe, is full of splendor like a noon. 
She hears the frequent heavy brakes descend, 
Mingled with voices and with hurrying feet, 
Till gradually the drowned flame submits, 
While slowly dies the hue from out her chamber. 
And now once more the quiet, like a bird 
Untimely startled from its rest, refolds 
Its wings, and drops through visions into sleep. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 125 



BOOK FIFTEENTH. 

"When I recount the pleasant sights of earth — 

Fair childhood blowing bubbles in the sun — 

A pleasure-party, in a moonlit barque ; 

The little sail with breeze and music swelled — 

A dancing wreath of children crowning May — 

A bridal group across a distant field 

Returning, with gay footsteps, from the church — 

I can recall no brighter, nobler scene 

Than men at labor "mid the waving grain, 

When summer, with its alchemy, transmutes 

The crops from green to gold ! The harvest sun 

Burns broad and white above the yellowing world, 

Which, for its plenty, laughs a rustling laugh ; 

A voice which cheers the hearts of those who strode 

Athwart the yielding ground, with swinging hands, 

In springtime, casting bread upon the earth, 

To be returned a hundredfold. The air 

Hangs hot and silent, save where yonder bird, 

The meadow-lark, darts into sudden voice 

From out the grain, and in the next tree lights, 

And, panting, sings no more; or where, perchance, 

The oriole,. careless of its swinging nest, 

From whence the young have flown, a moment streaks 

The sky with lire and song, and then gives o'er; 

Or yon tricolored bird, with nervous haste 

Ascending spirally the sapless trunk, 

Drums loudly as he climbs ; or locust hid 

Swift springs his shrilly rattle ; or the small 

Green insect, greener than the grass it bends, 

With the field cricket lifts its jarring voice ; 

"While his gray brother, on ambitious wings, 

Flickers his short flight down the summer road, 

Oft dropping in the sultry sand. Behold 

The yellow, dainty-pinioned swarm arise, 

On simultaneous wings, as soars a flame ; 

Or, settling where the small spring blots the dust, 

Glows like a golden group of buttercups. 

What a calm realm of sunshine gleams the world; 
The aspen only feels a phantom breath ; 
Beneath the great tree"s shadow in the field 
The silent cattle stand : and in the cool 
Deep shade of garden-shrubs the fowls are hid, 
Fluttering the dust upon their wings, with eye 
Suspicious watching oft the hawk which sails, 
Noiseless as sleep, upon the lofty air. 
Beside the spring, where the tall sycamore, 
And one wide willow, roof the cooling spot, 
The dairy-maid is singing 'mid her pans, 
And skimming oft the deep and yellow cream, 
"While floats abroad the sweet delicious scent 
Of cedar from the scalded churn. And now. 
With many a rumbling splash, the dasher flies, 
11* 



126 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Forcing the cream which oozes at the lid. 

At length the gathering weight, which lifts and falls, 

Denotes the labor through. In days like these, 

An hour suffices to transmute the mass, 

Which oft, in winter, whirls from morn till noon, 

Or later still, refusing to obey — 

Withheld, as some have deemed, by witch's charm. 

Along the wayside fence, by briery roads, 

The ruddy children, with their lingers stained, 

Collect the berries which, with milk combined, 

Shall to the reaper's hearty palate give 

The luscious dessert when the meat is past. 

The full fields, like a shepherd's flock in spring, 

Yield up their fleeces, till the well-bound sheaves, 

In glowing stacks, nod o'er the stubbled farm. 

Now sounds the horn 'neath the meridian sun ; 

And the brown laborers, hurrying to the call, 

Beside the deep well lave their heated brows ; 

Where oft the bucket from the windlass drops, 

Eattling till deluged, then, ascending slow, 

Comes dripping to the brink, and sends abroad 

A cool and grateful freshness. Then behold 

Where sweeps the table wide, from door to door, 

Looking from east to west. With open brow 

The generous matron welcomes in the group; 

And there Olivia, not too proud to tend, 

But with a flush of pleasure on her face, 

Glides gracefully from chair to chair, and helps 

The glowing reaper's plate ; here fills the glass 

With odorous cider, sparkling as it flows, 

Or drowns the bowl with liquid from the churn, 

Cooled at the spring beside the yellow prints. 

Here smokes the ample joint, and steaming there 

The yellow ears of maize inviting stand, 

Fresh from the caldron drained — delicious food, 

To other lands unknown — with much beside. 

When this is past, the berries crown the board, 

The whortle from the wood, and those at morn 

Plucked from the wayside briers. The garden, too, 

And orchard lend their fulness to the hour ; 

For 'tis the season when the generous year 

Pours from his plenteous horn the ripened fruit — 

The mellow peach, and bursting purple plum, 

The early apple, and the golden pear ; 

But chiefly the huge melon, which, when ripe, 

Yields, to the pressing hands and listening ear, 

A crisp and frosty sound, from out its heart 

Of crimson snow, that calls the thirsty knife. 

Thus flies the noon, until the heated fields 

Recall to labor, and the day goes by. 

Now, when the eve sets in, and one by one 

The stars come leaping o'er the eastern bar, 

And the great moon, aflush with summer heat, 

Climbs lazily along the harvest sky — 

Where dart the fire-flies with eccentric course, 

Oping their frequent dainty lantern-doors, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 



127 



As if to find a treasure lost — the group 

Of reapers gather on the social porch, 

And pass the shadowy hour in language meet 

The season and the place. And much they talk 

Of news which lately, from the far-off "West, 3 

Startled the calm community ; as when 

Some foreign sound disturbs the laboring hive — 

Or bee, returning from exploring search, 

Proclaims a land of more enticing sweets, 

And wakes a general buzz throughout the swarm. 

The younger men are restless to be gone, 

And descant largely on the wild pursuit 

Of game, exhaustless in the boundless woods. 

Some shake the doubtful head — the older these — 

And tell of labors long to be endured — 

The battle with the forest, and the stern 

Privation to be borne, where oft the call 

Of chill necessity affrights the soul ; 

Kepeating tales their childhood frequent heard 

From sires who 'mid these hills and valleys came, 

And, with the guardian fire-arm at their side, 

Laid the loud axe unto the woodland's foot. 

But what was meant to caution and deter, 

Inflames the youthful fancy and desire ; 

And even Age detects along his veins 

A curious yet an unacknowledged glow, 

And feels an impulse rising in his breast 

He hath not felt for years ; and, to conceal 

How much his spirit echoes younger thought, 

Puts by the subject with some careless jest, 

And turns the converse on to-morrow's task. 

Now see where strides, o'er many a homeward field, 

The hired laborer to his lowly cot : 

The shouldered sickle, by the moonshine lit, 

Gleams like a rising crescent. At the door 

His happy wife, and happier children, stand 

And welcome his return. Then to his couch, 

To others hard, luxurious to him, 

Softened by toil, he turns, and drains the cup — 

The drowning cup of sleep — unto the dregs. 



BOOK SIXTEENTH. 

On yonder hill, with oak and hickory crowned, 

What sight is that which draws, from far and near, 

The thronging people up the dusty roads, 

And through each field where'er a by-path leads ? 

See, where the red and new-arisen sun 

Points his bright finger through the upland grove, 

Flushing the white tents to a rosy hue ! 

And hark, the call of the resounding horn, 

"Which Echo, from yon hill, with slumberous shell 

Blows softly back ! Are these the tents of war, 

By some proud general pitched, where bayonets gleam, 

And sentinels walk, and banners to the drum 






128 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Dance in mid-air, and flap their sanguine folds? 
It is the camp of that increasing strife 
Waged 'gainst a world of sin ; it is a host 
Come out upon the glorious side of Truth, 
To fight, to suffer, and, with love, to conquer 1 
"With songs triumphal under flags of peace, 
Spread like the wings of swans upon the wind, 
They hold their siege against the walls of Wrong, 
And will not rest till on the highest tower 
Which crowns his ramparts that white banner floats. 
There Wesley's spirit hovers, and, with voice 
Clear as a bugle winding 'mid the hills, 
The soul of Whitefield soars. There, with long beard 
Sweeping his patriarchal breast, arrives 
The apostle-pilgrim, punctual to the hour — 
Lorenzo, the eccentric — and at once 
Mounts the rough desk, and lifts his startling voice, 
While eager thousands crowd the space to look ; 
And seeing, hear; and every neighboring tree 
Is populous with faces forward bent. 
Here, scoffer, smooth the scorn from off thy lip ; 
Nor you, nor I, though holding faith diverse, 
May sit in judgment and condemn the scene. 
Though we approve not, wiser heads than ours 
Have bowed and worshipped at the woodland altar, 
And pressed the temporary couch at night 
Within the wavy tent, and often found 
The peace which they had sought elsewhere in vain. 
Let us not waste the vigor of our minds 
In acrimonious quarrels over creeds. 
Not ours the business of dispute ; but ours, 
Ye gentle hearts for whom I chiefly sing, 
The pleasing duty to find good in all ; 
And, finding, recognize and own in each 
A brotherhood, no difference of faith 
May set ajar. Nor Brahmin, Turk, nor Jew, 
Nor he who kneels to Deity in stones — 
The savage instinct searching for its God — 
Each seeking truth the nearest way he knows, 
Shall wake in me one cold condemning word — 
While Charity, the sweetest child of Heaven, 
Hides her bright face, and weeps behind her wings — 
But love instead. And we will interchange 
Whatever thought may cheer each other on ; 
For all are pilgrims on one darksome road : 
One may have store of water, and no bread ; 
The other bread, and faint with sultry thirst ; 
One plenteous oil, another but dry wick. 
Hence is our duty plain ; and simple need, 
Left to itself, would teach us oft aright, 
Which, prejudiced by doctrines of a sect, 
• Would leave us hungry, thirsty, or at night 
Give but a lightless lantern. Let who will 
Quarrel o'er outward forms : so quarrelled they 
Who gambled for the garments of our Lord, 
And heard not the deep agony of soul 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 129 

Of Him who cast all mantles by as vain, 
And died for simple truth. 



BOOK SEVENTEENTH. 

The summer flies, 
And Autumn slowly comes, his withering breath 
Crisping whate'er he breathes on ; and the woods 
He sets ablaze with gorgeous hues which burn, 
With noiseless flame, until the foliage falls, 
Strewing the ground like embers, while the limbs 
Spread to the sky their empty ashen arms. 
At her lone window, drawn from household cares, 
Olivia sits, and to her lover writes ; 
And thus the ardor of her fancy flows : — 
" The months go by, the seasons slow depart, 
With steps reluctant, looking to the time 
When thou wert here — how different their flight ! 
I think one-half the sunshine went with thee, 
And, like my thoughts, the better half. And now 
The dreary autumn comes, the sighing days, 
With which my heart seems strangely set in tune. 
Here, where I gaze, I see the stubbled fields, 
The reddening forest, and the misty air — 
All sights and sounds which make the soul alone. 
Day after day, the flying flocks go south, 
In living lines, which write along the sky 
The prophecy of winter's sure approach ; 
I hear at night their voices o'er the roof, 
Mingled with whirring wings. On yonder plain 
The rustling maize, in many a bowing shock, 
Whispers to every passing breeze. Last night, 
Beneath the white moon, in the silent air, 
In jovial bands the huskers, flocking, came, 
And stripped the covers from the yellow ears, 
And left them glowing there in golden mounds. 
Oh, how the song, and jest, and laugh went round! 
And when the crimson ear was found, the prize 
Was held in blazing splendor, like a torch, 
And all proclaimed a ' sweetheart,' and rejoiced. 
I stood apart, and, as in days agone, 
Hearkened to hear thy voice among the rest; 
But there were none so happy or so clear, 
Or, as I fancied, half so musical. 
Within-doors, through the busy afternoon, 
Till late at eve, the neighboring dames and maids 
Found social pleasure round the spreading quilt, 
With rapid hands, till on the oft-rolled frame 
The latest puffy diamond-row was stitched. 
Then, when the gay and separate tasks were done, 
And noisy supper past, the room was cleared; 
When mirth, and music, and the mazy dance 
Reeled through the night till every rafter groaned, 
While swayed the floor beneath their gliding feet. 
I could not dance, and could not join the glee ; 



130 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Each smile I forced was half akin to tears ; 

So clearly came the old times o'er my mind. 

To-day the orchard yields its glowing fruits, 

"Which tumble, widely, with a thunderous sound, 

Shaken from stormy boughs — a monster hail. 

And there the creaking cider-press is fed, 

And oozes the sweet liquid through the straw, 

"Where gather the inebriate bees and wasps ; 

And childhood imitates the winged thieves 

"With wheaten pipes which yield the nectar draught. 

The sweetened air across the casement floats, 

And merriment invites abroad. Ah me ! 

How pining Memory flies into the past, 

And lives in the departed scene — so fond, 

She cannot taste the pleasure of to-day ! 

Then were we children, and in hours like this 

None were more happy. It is now the time 

When slumber seems to hover on the air. 

O'er all the veil of Indian summer floats, 

Blue, thin, and silent, lovely as a dream — 

A dream which, presently, the North shall wake, 

The shrewish North, with shrilly tongue of storm. 

The sounding flails, and Bowman's beating loom, 

Pulse through the brooding air. From out yon barn 

Floats the loud tempest of the sweeping fan ; 

"While, on the stormy gust its wings create, 

Beyond the door the winnowed chaff is blown, 

Swarming like golden bees. E'en where I sit, 

I can behold the great wheel of the mill 

Plashing its silvery circles in the sun, 

And yet so distant cannot hear its song. 

All happiest sights and sounds seem held afar. 

In the dear light of memory thou dost stand; 

I see thee smile, yet cannot hear thy voice. 

It is the season when the woodland trees, 

Through yellow fingers, shed the plenteous nuts ; 

"When happy children, from the school released, 

Wander from grove to grove. Canst thou not yet 

Bring back to fancy those departed days 

"When we, together, with our baskets went, 

Shelling the walnuts till our little hands 

"Were like the Autumn's brown? or chestnuts found 

Dropped from their starry burrs? or with the squirrels, 

Beneath the hickory, shared the shell-bark's store? 

How then we spread them in the loft to dry, 

Between the rolls of wool for winter wheels — 

The loft made odorous by the bundled herbs ? 

Ah, yes, thou needs must often see it all, 

And, seeing, sigh for the delightful hours. 

Oft have I prayed for thy return — how oft ! — 

But chiefly now, for these are changeful times. 

Loud Humor's voice entices to the West — 

The call from out the backwoods daily comes — 

The only topic when the neighbors meet; 

And the excitement like a fever spreads, 

Contagious, till one cannot safely say 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 131 

Who, ere another summer, mar depart 

To be immured in the far forest's gloom. 

The drover, with his cattle passing by, 

Tells marvellous stories of that plenteous land, 

Inflaming all he meets. And frequently 

A letter from its three weeks' journey rests, 

Breathing of woods primeval, and confirms 

The floating tale, advising all to come. 

Even round our fireside spreads the exciting theme. 

"Wert thou but here, to join in the exploit, 

The wilderness were welcome as the town." 

And more she writes ; but let the veil be drawn 

Between the world and her more tender thoughts. 



BOOK EIGHTEENTH. 

Xow comes the muster's jovial, motley day, 

Remnant of troublous times ; and after this 

Election follows. To the neighboring town 

The farmers flock, and, gathering in crowds, 

Discuss their candidates with growing warmth, 

Then drop the powerful scrip into the poll — 

The little weight which turns a nation's scale — 

Where oft a world-wide interest is weighed 

Beyond recall, and settled. Let no vote 

Be dropped with careless thought ; for it may be 

The last strong hand which draws the lever down 

"Which moves the giant destiny of man 

Xo future shall replace. What power is yours, 

Ye heirs of what the patriots bequeathed ! 

The hand which holds a plough is strong as that, 

And stronger oft, than which a sceptre grasps. 

Then be ye each as watchful as a king, 

And jealous of your rights; yet generous, 

As only freemen can afford to be. 

Behold where walks the white-haired beldam, Frost, 

Breathing her bitterness o'er all the scene — 

She whom erewhile we hailed as maiden Dew. 

The flowers she fed, when morning-glories blew 

Their white and purple trumpets to the dawn, 

Are nipped and withered by her fingers cold ; 

The grass is crisp and brittle ; neath her tread ; 

And, like a witch, she flies the broad clear sun, 

But works her charm beneath the gibbous moon. 

See, where the joyous Hallow-eve comes in, 

And how the country is awaked to mirth ! 

While, far and near, the sleepless watch-dog's bark 

Responds from farm to farm, till oft the wife 

Starts from her couch to peer with anxious eye, 

Or, on her troubled pillow, dreams of harm 

In cabbage-plots or poultry-sheds sustained. 

Round many a hearth, in noisy groups, collect 

The youths and maids, and there Pomona reigns. 

Swift flies the apple to the paring blade, 



132 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

While, like a serpent, falls the coiling peel. 

Some quarter and take out the core, and some 

Attend the giant caldron o'er the fire, 

Which on the huge crane stretched from jamb to jamb, 

Wide as a gate that lets a chariot pass, 

Swings o'er the blaze with cider steaming hot, 

Where the brown stirrer with its handle long 

A ceaseless motion keeps. Thus flies the night, 

Until the odorous mass grows thick and dark, 

Which then is dipped in various jars to cool. 

And now the reel, to some rude Afric's viol, 

Whirls through the shadowy hour, till oft the star 

Of morning lights the laughing revellers home. 

Lo, now the ungentle time of slaughter comes, 

And horrid preparation frights the hour. 

The flashing knives upon the grinding disk 

Are held, with grating and discordant noise; 

And the great casks with scalding water smoke, 

Where oft the red-hot stone falls hissing, drowned. 

The muse, affrighted, flies the barbarous scene, 

And seeks elsewhere whatever rural sights 

Engage the autumn day. Beside the barn, 

Some break the brittle flax with swingle loud, 

And on the thorny hackle cleanse from tow ; 

Some, where the full cribs like a sunset gleam, 

Shedding a golden lustre, shell the ears 

Of Indian corn preparing for the mill ; 

Or thresh the buckwheat which on many a morn, 

When Boreas on the frosty panes shall breathe, 

Fresh from the griddle shall delight the board. 

And there the matron by her cottage door, 

With numerous wicks on slender twigs arranged, 

In melting caldrons gives the frequent dip, 

Preparing tapers for the winter's eve; 

Which then, suspended in the air to cool, 

Hang like the icicles at frozen roofs, 

That harden as the sinking sun departs. 

Now through the heavens the changing vapors fly, 
Driven by winds eccentric, threatening storm, 
While answering shadows sweep the stubbled land. 
Together smite the woodland's empty arms, 
While, with the last leaves, fall the latest nuts. 
Along the ground the rustling foliage whirls, 
Where oft^the quail from out the sickled fields, 
Affrighted, comes, in kindred-colored drifts, 
To seek a rescue from the hunter's eye. 
And there the squirrel, with his pattering feet, 
Collects his winter store ; or on a bough, 
The highest 'gainst the sky, with blowing bush, 
Sits swinging o'er the leafless world, amazed. 
At length the slanting, chill November rain 
Usurps the landscape wide, and with its hand — 
Agued and blue with penetrating cold — 
Closes the slumberous barn, and every door, 
. Most hospitable, shuts. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 133 



BOOK NINETEENTH. 

The winter comes, 
Proclaimed by winds, and charioted by snows ; 
And, like an Arctic voyager returned, 
His white furs breathing of the Norland frost, 
Tells of the frozen fields and mounts of ice 
Forever naming in the boreal lights, 
Aflush with dawn-like hues which bring no day. 
Now the bright sun above a brighter world — 
A world as white as last month's perfect moon — 
Looks all abroad, and on the jewelled trees, 
And icicles which taper at the eaves, 
Flashes his lavish splendor. Everjr stream 
Is deeply sealed beneath a frozen bridge, 
"Where glides the glittering skate, with many a whirl, 
Scarring the polished floor. Afar and near 
The air is full of merriment and bells ; 
And the swift sleigh, along the slippery road, 
Flies through the powdery mist which every gust 
Blows from the buried field. Here sweeps one past 
Muffled in generous skins — the bison's robe 
Spread largely, trailing in the sidelong drift. 
There timid Amy by her lover sits, 
Her soft cheek blushing at the winter's kiss. 
Anon, behold the temporary sledge — 
Built in the first joy of the earliest snow — 
Which gives to rustic youths a thrill of pleasure 
Deeper than feels the Czar, encased in furs, 
'Mid music swifter and more safely whirled. 
Down yonder hill, 'mid boyhood's ringing shouts, 
An avalanche of little sleds are shot, 
Streaking the air with laughter as they fly. 
There the tough snow-balls, hardened 'twixt the knees, 
Stream through the sun, with meteor-crossing lines, 
Till oft the winter coat is starred with white, 
The mark of skilful aim. Here one, perchance, 
Starts the small round, which gathers as it rolls, 
Until the giant pile half blocks the road ; 
Or, at the wayside reared, takes human form — 
A monster bulk, that, when the eve sets in, 
Shall fright the traveller with its ghostly shape, 
And start his steed aside. In yonder shed, 
Where rings the anvil with a bell-like sound, 
The Smith, while oft the share is in the coals, 
Leans on the polished handle of his sledge, 
And sees in visions, pleasing to his eye, 
The pictures which the floating rumors give 
Enticing to the West. And when the iron 
Flames on the stithy, like a rising sun, 
Driving the shadows into cobweb corners, 
The hammer takes new impulse from his arm — 
Imagination so possesses him — 

12 



134 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

And falls as 'twere the echo-waking axe, 

Swung by a pioneer in boundless woods. 

The "Wheelwright, too, wields the curved, dangerous adze, 

And shapes the axle, as it were a beam 

Or rafter for the cabin, in his mind. 

The Mason — for the frozen mortar now 

Refuses use — beside the glowing fire 

Spreads his hard hands, and, gazing in the blaze, 

Startles the woodlands with his trowel's ring. 

The Cooper, at his shaving-horse astride, 

Draws the swift knife, and shapes the oaken stave 

As 'twere a shingle for his forest home. 

The Miller hears, amid the dusty meal, 

The mill-dam roaring at some unknown stream, 

And rears his pulpit in the distant wild. 

And in the grove the Woodman, 'mid his cords, 

Fells the primeval trunks. And e'en the Gunner — 

So powerful the infectious fever grows — 

Strides, heedless of the rising flocks of quail ; 

And, homeward turning, hangs the weapon up, 

Saving his charge for more important game. 

Now comes the warmer noon. The vanes swing round 

Before the south wind's soft and venturous wing. 

The breeze, like childhood in the shell-bark boughs, 

Shakes from the trees the rattling sleet ; and now 

The eaves are pouring as with summer rain. 

Along the slushy roads the laboring sleigh, 

Returning, cuts into the softened earth, 

Grating discordant to the bells ; the driver's face, 

Each melting moment falling with the thaw, 

Gives the long gauge of disappointed mirth. 

Then follows eve. The slanting sun descends — 

The snow grows crisp — the roofs withhold their rain — 

And, like a proud man's mind, the icicle, 

Which had been spendthrift once, gives less and less, 

Until the last slow drop is held congealed, 

And the cold, miser point forbids approach. 

When o'er the western threshold goes the sun, 
Spreading his great hand through the crimson clouds, 
Shedding his benediction ere he leaves, 
Then dawns the eve around the social fire ; 
From six to ten the nightly quiet glows, 
Soothing the household. Oh, how blest are they 
Who feel the calm that gilds the sacred hearth ! 
To them, nor spring, nor summer's voiceful time, 
Hold music sweeter than is chanted there. 
From out the steaming logs the woodland sprites 
Sing, as they fly, a grateful song of peace ; 
And crickets, full of harvest memories, 
In nook and crevice warm, rehearse their lays, 
Until the charmed and dreamy sense beholds 
The scented hay -fields, and the nodding sheaves; 
While Winter, like an uninvited guest, 
Stands at the hearth forgot. What though the moon, 
Through darkened chambers, pours her phantom snow, 
While all the stars, which ice the arch of heaven, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 135 

Pierce the deep stillness with their splintered light ; — 
Or though the clouds their fleecy fulness shed, 
Till farm with farm become one fenceless field, 
And fill the road, and roof the running brook, 
To oft mislead the wagoner and his team ; — 
Though 'gainst the cottage piles the shifting snow, 
"While at the sill the searching powder sifts ; — 
Far from the blaze the deepening cold withdraws, 
And all grow tranquil as the tempest swells. 

Thus flames the hearth where Master Ethan sits, 
In dreamy trance, who, gazing at the blaze, 
Beholds Elijah's mounting wheels of fire ; 
While, at his feet, the glowing grandchild, rapt, 
Pores o'er some magic page, or eager lists, 
With largening eyes, the reverend tongue discourse 
Of troublous days when W T ar bestrode the land- 
On her low chair the dozing grandam knits, 
The needles moving when her eyes are closed, 
Till the dropped stitch requires the ready aid 
Of younger sight and hands. Still at her wheel 
Olivia dreams with misty, brooding eye, 
While flies the flax between her fingers warm, 
And on the spindle grows the oval spool. 
And there the larger wheel, whose whirring loud 
Makes through the house a tempest of its own, 
The matron drives ; and, pacing forth and back, 
Smooths the white rolls that dwindle as they go. 
The easy farmer o'er the journal pours ; 
Or, musing, clears the Western forest lands, 
And sows his harvest in the ashen field ; 
Or drives his plough into the deep, rank soil 
Of boundless prairies stretching to the sky, 
Till fancy fills the crescent of his hope. 
No chilling sound disturbs the pleasing dream ; 
In vain the winds besiege his stable- walls, 
Where, 'mid the well-filled racks, his cattle lie. 
And now, responsive to the village spire, 
The cock proclaims the hour, and all is well ; 
While shadowy Time, who stands upon the stair, 
Lifts his clear voice, and points his warning hand. 
Anon, the flames in ashen depths expire, 
And none but crickets cheer the cooling hearth. 
Peace bars the doors, Content puts out the lamp, 
And Sleep fills up the residue of night. 
And still, as sounds the hour-announcing spire, 
The crowing cock makes answer, " All is well !" 



BOOK TWENTIETH. 

Approaches now the time to Christians dear, 
Hallowed with grateful memories; the hour 
Which startled Herod on his throne, and drew 
The star-led Magi through the manger door, 
Where lay the infant Saviour of a world, 
More terrible to Eden's serpent vile — 



136 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

"Which now, affrighted, backward shrunk, chagrined, 

Coiling upon himself — than was the boy, 

The cradled Hercules, unto the snake 

He strangled in his grasp. This is the eve, 

"Welcome to all, by childhood chiefly hailed, 

Bringing that day the angels ushered in 

O'er favored Bethlehem ; and every house 

Is waked with joy, no pagan palace knew. 

Now to the hearth the Christmas log is rolled, 

Huge, unassailed by severing wedge and maul : 

Not the light pine, consuming in a day, 

Or loud explosive chestnut whose report 

Oft calls the housewife with her hurried broom ; 

But hickory, solid, or, more common, oak, 

"Whose knotted grain defies the splitting axe ; 

"Which., once arranged, behind the andirons glows, 

Devouring many a forelog, daily brought, 

Till New, Year rolls another in its place. 

Behold where through the starry twilight air, 
Across the field, with crispy footfalls, walk 
Olivia and Amy, bearing each, 
From Baldwin's pantrv, something for the dame 
"Who in the lonely Oakland shadow dwells ; 
"While Master Ethan, jn his ancient coat, 
"Whose long skirts sweep the snow, strides on before, 
Bearing the fowl — no plumper crowds the roost — 
To cheer the morrow's feast. Beside her door, 
Already, the rough wain has tracked the snow, 
And shed, the winter cord ; and on the sill 
The miller's frequent sack, to-day, was left. 
Oh, ye who sit in warm, penurious ease, 
Did ye but know the recompense which flows, 
Richer than gold, unto the heart that gives, 
Your very selfishness would master self, 
Till, on the coldest night of all the year, 
There should not be a hearth-stone unablaze, 
Or in a pantry want of wherewithal 
To bless the humble board, however poor ! 

The door approached, the comfortable flame 
Gleams through unlisted crannies and the small 
Four panes which make a window ; while above 
The cheerful smoke, shot through with frequent sparks, 
Mounts on the still cold air. A hasty glance 
They cast, and set their burthens down, and turn 
To leave ; when at the door, with startling voice, 
The dame arrests them, crying, " Fly not so ! 
Stay yet awhile ; for, knowing who ye are, 
I wot there are some thanks for me to pay. 
At least, fair damsels, let me pass my hand 
A moment o'er your own ; and, in the dark, 
Perchance, I'll tell you something not amiss. 
Oh, here is joy !" she cries — the while she draws 
Her bony finger o'er Olivia's palm — 
"So soon to come it needs no prophecy !" 
Then, taking Amy's shrinking hand in hers, 
"With low, confiding voice she speaks : — " When times 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 137 

Have changed, and bring to you the need of friends, 
Beneath this humble roof one may you find. 
Here is a shelter where the tainted breath, 
The bad world loves to breathe, cannot invade : 
Cold slander points not at a couch like mine. 
This have the outcasts for their comfort ; while 
That low and horrid shed must yet be built, 
Which hath not space enough for Peace to enter." 
Thus having heard, they turn beyond the gate, 
And leave her murmuring .to herself; and soon 
The farm-house takes them to its glowing arms. 

How swell the young hearts round the evening board, 
"While spreads conjecture of the coming gifts ! 
And soon the little stockings at the jamb 
Are hung, convenient, where the promised Saint, 
Through sooty entrance, shall descend unseen. 
Oh, thou brave, generous spirit, whose sure round 
Comes yearly, like the snow — Saint Nicholas, 
Or Santa Claus — or, in these sylvan vales, 
" Kriss Kringle" called — of all the blessed saints, 
"Which, as the legends say, revisit earth, 
I have chief faith in thee ! For thou dost come, 
Noiseless and unobtrusive, to thy shrines, 
The Christmas hearths ; and to thy votaries givest, 
And takest naught, save, at the early morn, 
The countless thanks, from youthful hearts of joy, 
Given in shouts profuse. In what strange form 
Thou comest is not known ; but fancy deems 
Thy breast is swept with patriarchal beard, 
Thy silver locks encased in downy cap, 
Thy ample mantle of the softest furs, 
Native to Arctic climes ; thy starry car — 
Laden at Nuremberg's toy-crowded gables — 
A sleigh with silver runners, which through clouds 
Of snow unfallen, or the frosty dark, 
Flies drawn by spirits of a Lapland team, 
With shadowy antlers broad, whose many bells 
Are only heard in slumber's dreamy air. 
Thus wilt thou come to-night; and, with the dawn, 
Whether thou stayest to hear, or fliest afar, 
To shade thy head a twelvemonth in thy realm — 
Withdrawn, unknown — the happiest laughing voice, 
Sincerest of the year, shall swell with praise 
And gratitude to thy mysterious name. 

Along the valley winds the coachman's horn, 
Announcing his approach ; and while his steeds 
Are led to stable, steaming as they go, 
And fresher are brought out, one traveller 
Alights, and straightway, favored by the moon, 
Takes the near path across, through field and grove, 
And on the hill, which gives the vale to sight, 
Stands for a moment, breathless with his joy, 
His shadow, like his fancy, streaming far 
And swiftly in advance, along the snow. 
Full twice his wonted height the figure seems 
Above his shade ; while all his stately frame 
12* 



138 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Is glowing, throbbing with a new delight. 

The landscape swims, confused, in manly tears ; 

The cottage lights, like wisps, unsteady shine, 

Wavering, uncertain, as his steps renew. 

Swiftly he glides, recalling every spot 

"Which sideway meets his eye ; but still his gaze 

Upon one lighted window firmly holds. 

Now hath he neared the gate ; and, trembling now, 

Steals slowly to the door, while sounds within 

The boisterous laugh of children. When this fades, 

His heart so loudly thunders in his brain, 

He cannot catch the voice he most would hear. 

His hand is at the latch ; but, ere it lifts, 

The door, as by a spirit oped, swings wide, 

And all the brightness of the light within 

Falls on his noble form ; and, like a ghost, 

Breathless, Olivia before him stands. 

The taper drops from out her loosened grasp ; 

She calls his name, and swoons into his arms ; 

And all the household echoes, " Arthur ! Arthur !" 

How speed the hours between those happy hearts ! 
What welcomes sweet ! what fluent interchange 
Of all which filled their separated past ! 
Ne'er were two dwellings waked with deeper joy, 
Than are to-night the homes of the betrothed ; 
So deep that Sleep, admiring, stands withdrawn, 
Listening unseen beneath the midnight arch 
The morrow comes, and every neighboring house 
Is filled with gladness at the welcome news — 
So much is Arthur held in their esteem. 
And invitations, set for different nights, 
Soon fill the coming week ; where the full board 
Is spread, with honor to the housewife's skill, 
And choicest cider-casks are bid to flow, 
While fruits and nuts go round. There, every eve 
The favored lovers lead the country reel, 
Where Envy, pale, abashed at her own voice, 
Shrinks from the door to more ambitious halls. 
And there, the frequent centre of a group, 
The happy traveller, glowing with his theme, 
Eepeats the wonders of the sea or land, 
Spreading, to the undoubting, marvelling eye, 
The pictures which his rapid language paints, 
Till many a listener takes his pack and staff, 
Sailing imaginary seas, to climb 
The visionary Alp, or stride the plain 
Where history's various-colored tents are pitched. 



BOOK TWENTY-FIBST. 

The winter speeds ; yet, ere the spring comes in, 
On many a tree which at the cross-roads stands, 
And at the village tavern and the store, 
And on the blacksmith's wall — in staring print, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 139 

Or in coarse written lines — unnumbered bills 

Proclaim the dissolution near at hand. 

There the choice farm and stock, or household wares, 

Are offered, and the day of vendue set ; 

And, ere from off the fields the last snow melts 

From crops, another than the hand which sowed 

Shall in the harvest reap. The sales begin ; 

"While Melancholy walks from door to door, 

And with strange pleasure holds divided sway. 

Already the great wains, with produce filled, 

Have groaned their way unto the distant mart, 

And in return brought back such various stores 

As the long journey needs — the rifle, axe, 

And ammunition for defence and game ; 

While evening oft beholds around the hearth, 

As in those days when war convulsed the land, 

The molten lead run into moulded balls, 

Till every pouch is full, and, with the horn, 

Hangs waiting on the wall. At many a door 

The new-bought wagon, with its cover white, 

Stands with the long tongue ready for the team. 

From house to house the auction goes by turns ; 

"While flock the people in from miles around, 

And bear at eve, well pleased, the purchase home. 

Thus oft the household goods, as to the winds 

Blowing from fitful quarters, fly afar, 

Like severed families, to meet no more ; 

And oft the sad wife, gazing where they go, 

Needs dry the starting tear. The sales proceed ; 

The various round is wellnigh done ; and now 

To Baldwin's dwelling comes the fatal day. 

From loft to cellar, all the staid old house 

Is made to pour its contents to the yard, 

Until the feet most native to the stairs 

"Wake but a hollow, uncongenial sound, 

Saddening, sepulchral — until each heart feels 

As if the stranger, at the outer door, 

Stood waiting with his wares. The brown old clock, 

Slender and tall, with curious antique face, 

Which stood for threescore years with hourly tongue, 

Warning and cheering — or, if none would hear, 

Like childish age, still garruling to itself — 

Now passes silent through the mournful door, 

Borne, carefully, foot first. The faithful wheels 

Which, like the cat with purring voice of peace, 

Sang as the flax from off the distaffs ran, 

The mothers and the daughters stand outside, 

Whirling to idle hands. The bureau old, 

W T ith deep and odorous drawers, where oft the rose 

Scattered its leaves to scent the snow-white robes, 

Is lightly thrummed upon, with careless fingers, 

Or peered into, with calculating eyes, 

Measuring its worth. And there the mirror tall, 

Which now hath ta'en farewell of well-known forms, 

Reflects the stranger and the bustling scene. 

See, how the crier's hard, unpitying look 



140 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Gloats o'er the medley mass, while all draw near ! 

Swift as a rattle flies his marvellous tongue, 

While his quick eye from face to face darts round, 

Catching the nod ere full consent approves. 

And the rough joke, which wakes the crowd to mirth, 

Adds a fresh blow unto the aching hearts 

Of those who, piecemeal, see their home destroyed, 

Part after part, as rafters to a flame, 

"With sound of desolation, falling in. 

Among the heirlooms, note the aged pair, 
Downcast as at a funeral, move about 
"With nervous stealth, taking a sad farewell 
Of many a dumb old friend. The palsied dame 
Among the curious children, shuffling, goes 
From room to room, with wondering mournful eyes; 
Or on the last chair, by the starving hearth, 
Crouches, and gazes in the cheerless fire. 
And Master Ethan, stifling many a sigh, 
Affects the cheerful, and sets out the ware ; 
The while the matron, favoring the move,* 
Stirs chief amid the scene; and, frequent, chides 
The tear upon Olivia's cheek, yet oft, 
"With hasty apron, clears her own blurred gaze. 
The day goes by ; the evening quiet comes, 
"Where sadness half-way dims their one poor light, 
Until, to such rough temporary beds 
As haste and need can make, they seek repose : 
Some dreaming of the past, and some 
Of the to-morrow's busy scene — of ties 
Soon to be broken, and no more renewed ; 
"While Fancy oft, before the expedition, 
Flies like the horizon, and in forest depths 
Pitches the evening tent. The starting-morn, 
Full of bright sunshine, bursts upon the vale; 
But in the broken home — their home no more — 
A stranger foot hath passed, and led one hence, 
"Without a breath announcing to the air 
His coming or departure ; and the house, 
From Master Ethan to the youngest there, 
Is shadowed with a sudden gust of grief. 
There lies the grandam, placid as in sleep, 
Where she shall wake no more. The weary soul 
Hath left its time-worn tenement of earth, 
Shaking the dust from off its pilgrim feet 
Against a sinful world, and passed to heaven 
The news is spread, and all the w r agons wait. 
A few swift days fly o'er the dreary vale ; 
And, for the last time, to the chapel-yard 
The pastor turns his steps, where follow, soon, 
The mournful train. And now the grave is filled ; 
The last sad mound is shaped, as 'twere a seal 
Signing the separation made in peace, 
Or monument to the departing hour. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 141 



BOOK TWENTY-SECOND. 

Here, by the highway, let us stand and note 

The long, slow, laboring caravan which takes, 

To-day, its westward course. Like moving tents, 

The laden wagons pass. Along the road 

Some, who remain, collect in wayside groups, 

And wave the kerchief, uttering heartfelt words 

Of cheer; some join the pilgrimage, a space, 

Walking behind the wains in converse meet, 

Speeding the adventurers on. Some, in advance, 

Who started earlier on the way, with gaze 

Cast frequent back, and leisure, mournful steps, 

Hold melancholy talk with those whom they 

Perchance shall see no more. Saddest of these. 

Young Amy, leaning on her lover, walks, 

Her tears usurping all her powers of speech ; 

While he, as voluble as spring-time brooks, 

Pours in her ear the promise which her hope 

Gathers and holds in its securest depths. 

A few short weeks will soon go by, and then 

His steps shall follow to their forest home, 

Where thought of separation shall no more 

Affright her tender soul. With words like these 

He drowns, at last, the saddest of her fears. 

On yonder height, where forks the woodland road, 

And the old finger-boards with letters pale, 

Long washed by storms, direct diverging ways, 

The school-house stands, where Master Ethan taught, 

Now silent as a bee-deserted hive; the shutters closed, 

As on a room of death, while chain and lock 

Make the lone door secure. There, on her cane, 

Beneath the hand-post, stands the Oakland dame, 

Watching the winding line with curious eye. 

When Amy passes, she exalts her voice, 

Waving a caution-finger as she speaks : 

" Remember, lass, the words of Christmas eve !" 

And, suddenly, across the young girl's heart 

Plashes the whole sad sentence she then heard. 

Loud laughs the youth, and bids her hold her peace ; 

And Amy, trembling as they pass her by, 

Hastens her onward steps. Next, following, come 

Olivia and Arthur; after these, 

Frail Master Ethan, with his pilgrim cane, 

Leading the wondering grandchild by the hand ; 

Then, next, the wagons. First, the well-shod team 

Bearing the blacksmith's household ; following this, 

The wheelwright, full of magisterial pomp, 

Directs his steeds, holding himself the centre 

And spring of all the movement, — one of those, 

Chancing in front, who arrogate the lead ; 

Or, in the rear, is driver — nothing less. 

Adverse or fair, the world from one proud point 



142 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Is viewed and met : if good, it is his due — 

If ill, another's fault ; yet ne'er so bad, 

But that the saddest half, by skill of his, 

Is headed and turned ofF. The ridden world 

Bears many such ; and oft obeys the reins, 

Which arrogance usurps with shameless hand, 

"While modest wisdom stands aside, abashed. 

There, next, the mason and the cooper come, 

Their wives and children from the crowded wain 

Peering abroad, with eyes half smiles and tears ; 

And, in communion close, the parson's team 

And Baldwin's bring the rear. Anon they gain 

The summit of the height, and turn to gaze ; 

And, gazing, heave the sigh, and breathe adieu, 

While many a rough hand feels the farewell grasp. 

At length the longleave-taking is all o'er; 

The train descends ; and, lo, the happy vale 

Is closed from sight beyond the mournful hill, 

And all the West, before the onward troop, 

Lies in the far unknown. As goes a bride, 

With pain and joy alternate in her breast, 

To find a home within the alien walls 

Of him who hath enticed her hence — her heart 

More hoping than misgiving — so, to-day, 

Departed the slow train ; and now the miles, 

Gliding beneath with gradual but sure pace, 

Bring them at last to unfamiliar scenes. 

Thoughtful they hold their onward, plodding course, 

Each in his own reflection wrapt ; for now, 

With every step, some ancient tie is broke, 

Some dream relinquished, or some friend given up : 

While old associations spring, self-called, 

Even as tears, unbidden. Thus, awhile, 

They keep the silent tenor of their way ; 

Till, like a sudden, unexpected bird 

W T hich from the still fields soars into the air, 

Flooding the noon with melody, up swells 

The gladsome voice of Arthur into song, 

Cheering the drooping line : — 

" Bid adieu to the homestead, adieu to the vale, 

Though the memory recalls them, give grief to the gale : 

There the hearths are unlighted, the embers are black, 

Where the feet of the onward shall never turn back. 

For as well might the stream that comes down from the mount, 

Glancing up, heave the sigh to return to its fount ; 

Yet the lordly Ohio feels joy in his breast 

As he follows the sun onward into the West. 

" There the great inland seas wash their measureless shores, 

The voice of whose grandeur Niagara pours ; 

There the wide prairie rolls, a deep ocean, away 

Where the bison toss through in leviathan play ; 

Or oft pours through autumn a deluge of fire, 

Where the herds fly, like demons, in fear and in ire. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 143 

At the noon or the midnight, in tempest or rest, 
The sublime hath its realm in the land of the West. 

11 Oh, to roam, like the rivers, through empires of woods, 
"Where the king of the eagles in majesty broods ; 
Or to ride the wild horse o'er the boundless domain, 
And to drag the wild buffalo down to the plain ; 
There to chase the fleet stag, and to track the huge bear, 
And to face the lithe panther at bay in his lair, 
Are a joy which alone cheers the pioneer's breast, 
For the only true hunting-ground lies in the West ! 

" Leave the tears to the maiden, the fears to the child, 
While the future stands beckoning afar in the wild ; 
For there Freedom, more fair, walks the primeval land, 
Where the wild deer all court the caress of her hand. 
There the deep forests fall, and the old shadows fly, 
And the palace and temple leap into the sky. 
Oh, the East holds no place where the onward can rest, 
And alone there is room in the land of the West 1" 

Thus swelled the song, and cheerfulness at last, 

With the new scene, possessed the flying hour. 

And when the evening, like a toll-man gray, 

Drops his dusk bar across the winding road, 

Before the dull, secluded wayside inn, 

The laden wains collect, where tired teams 

Hear the loud-creaking pump, and rustling hay 

Which from the near mow rolls, or dusty oats 

Poured into troughs, and heave the hungry neigh. 

Around the evening hearth the cheerful groups 

Collect ; and, in the novel hour, forget 

Their various regrets and their fatigues, 

While jest and laugh go round. Alone withdrawn, 

The mournful Amy by Olivia sits ; 

And, on the willing shoulder of her friend, 

Leans her sad head, and pours her heart of grief, 

Mingled with hope, to the confiding breast 

Which, having known a kindred pain, can feel, 

And, feeling, give its depth of sympathy. 

How beautiful is innocence which, thus, 

To innocence consigns its deepest thought ! — 

How pure ! how angel-like ! A sacred scene, 

Which, to the brow of cold, suspecting man — 

They most suspicious who betray — should start 

The color, given by the sudden blow 

Of self-reproach, upon the scoundrel front. 



BOOK TWENTY-THIRD. 

Another morning finds them on their way: 
Another still, and still another, flies. 
To-day beside the Susquehanna leads 
Their road romantic ; and to-day the sun, 
Looking betwixt the hill-tops to the vales, 



144 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Beholds, with cheerful eye, the climbing line 

Which by the roaring Juniata winds ; 

Till, lo I upon the windy mountain height, 

Whjle glows the eve above a ^ea of hills, 

Flushing the Alleghanian peaks, the train 

Hangs like a cloud that, with the coming day, 

Beside the brook which takes a westward course 

Shall hold its far descent. Here, from the road, 

They turn into the woods beneath the pines, 

And, 'mid the budding laurels, pitch their camp. 

The wains, together in close circle drawn, 

Give shelter to the steeds that feed within. 

At once, in noisy groups, all hands collect 

The dry dead branches and the resinous cones, 

And build the lire, and hew the stakes and crane; 

While Master Ethan, fathoming his pouch, 

Draws out the line, and Arthur trims the rod, 

And soon along the wild, tumultuous brook 

The bait is swept; and oft, as to the eddy 

It whirls, 'mid spray and foam, the mountain trout 

Flickers in air its constellated sides 

To eke the evening meal. The camp-fire springs, 

And the red day fades out, and leaves the sky 

To the cold April moon and stars — the moon, 

As Ceres' sickle, thin, and sharp, and bright. 

Behold where glide the dusk forms to and fro 

Before the crackling blaze, their shadows far 

Reaching among the pines ! Throughout the night 

The hungry fire is fed by those who holfi, 

By turns, the dreary watch — a foretaste this 

Of many a night to come, in gloomy depths 

Of wilderness, far, unknown. Strange sounds 

Are floating on the gusty air; the boughs, 

In wavy motion, make continuous noise 

As of a mighty river roaring by ; 

While, as night deepens, louder brawl the brooks, 

Flashing their spectral light among the rocks : 

One sweeping east, unto the Chesapeake — 

One west, to Mississippi and the Gulf. 

To such inhospitable heights as this, 

Where the thin air unto the palest cheek 

Sends the quick blood, the fancy deems that Sleep 

Would scarcely come, or, coming, stay not long; 

But now in many a tented wain she sits, 

Soothing the fallen lid with murmurous sounds, 

Despite the young, capricious imp of dreams, 

Who half-way mars her choicest task. The watch 

Of middle night is Arthur's : when his form 

Stands tall and brave against the steadfast blaze, 

One other figure steals unto his side, 

And, 'gainst persuasion, shares the starry hour; 

For Love, more sure than sleep, attends the course 

Of whosoever once hath harbored him. 

Where'er they look, the black and pillared pines 

Sway to and fro, as if some giant arm, 

Like Samson's, rocked them to their fall ; and yet 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 145 

The tempest, in his oft accustomed track, 
Sits, like a hunter 'mid his leash of hounds, 
Besting, uncertain where to bend his steps. 
The moon, above the shadowy mountain lines, 
Drops its increasing crescent, where the hope 
Of those two hearts as one together glides, 
To round and brighten in the distant West. 
Dear, as a new star to the wakeful eye 
Of one who, on a midnight tower, keeps watch, 
Is scene like this unto the tuneful muse : 
The maid all tenderness and trust, and rich 
With sympathies which time alone can show ; 
The other boundless in his guardian love, 
Which colors even his most ambitious dream ; — 
A noble nature, full of great desires, 
And whom the well-pleased future shall behold 
A leader 'mid his people. Night departs ; 
The stars withdraw behind a veil of light, 
To gild in other worlds the evening sky, 
While morning rules in this. When now the sun, 
Like a swift diver 'neath a vessel's keel, 
Hath swept the nether space, and all aglow 
Exalts his shining forehead in the east — 
Laying his level arms across the hills — 
Gazing, delighted, where he climbs, refreshed — 
The white train, like a bank of spring-time snow 
Loosened by warmth, glides slowly down along 
The steep and melting roads ; while constant care 
Scarce shuns the dread abyss which yawns beside 
The freezing depths where, half the summer through, 
Some straggling follower of winter rests, 
Lodged in his sheltered tent of sunless snow. 
Still by their side, companioning their way, 
The embryo river — here a gust of foam 
Which the deer leaps, and hunter, undismayed, 
Seizing a rough branch, follows — headlong flies. 
Days come and close ; and, with another eve, 
Against the sky their ken discerns, well pleased, 
The swinging cloud, starred through with meteor sparks, 
Which, hourly, o'er the Iron City floats, 
Announcing where the loud and laboring forge 
And furnace flame, continuous, throb and glow. 
And when within the hospitable yards 
Of well-stored inns the teams are led ungeared, 
And matrons, maids, and children, round the fire, 
Thaw out the memory of the mountain cold, 
The men and youths, adventurous, sally forth, 
And seek the red mouth of the furnace broad, 
Where flows the iron into smoking moulds ; 
Or stand, admiring, where the hammer huge 
Falls on the white-hot metal, at each blow 
Filling the space with sudden rain of fire ; 
Or how the hungry rollers take the mass, 
And yield, at length, the long and slender bars. 
Here Barton stands, as native to the scene, 
And feels the. impulse of his noble craft 
13 



146 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Thrill to his fingers, with a fond desire 

To grasp the bar and sledge. The morning comes : 

Behold where noisy builders by the stream, 

"With axe and adze, construct the future arks, 

To sweep the Ohio to its mouth, and take 

The Mississippi, in its swift career, 

Wide-winding 'twixt the boundaries of States 

As lesser streams 'twixt farms. Here, on this beam, 

The fresh-hewn poplar, which among its fellows 

Sweetens the air with odors, till it floats 

Enamored in the sun as o'er a garden, 

Let us sit down, unstartled — sit and hear 

The song of Labor, whose resounding blow 

Sounds like a voice proclaiming to the future 

The march of this, our forward-going age. 

The song of Labor ! nobler song is not 1 

He is the bard who writes, in living acts, 

The epic of the era ; every stroke 

A word prophetic of the great hereafter. 

Observe this group of workmen who prepare 

The beams and boards, and clear the ample space, 

To shape the flat-boat's square, ungraceful form. 

Some line and score, and with the broadaxe hew 

The giant log ; and then the whip-saw comes, 

Long, slender, biting as a champion's sword, 

And double-handled, manned at either end, 

One on the upreared trunk and one beneath ! 

See how the swift blade, as the lightning, flies, 

Severing, like death, what time can never join ! 

Thus separated, and the ends aslope 

Hewn equal, like the runners of a sleigh — 

Huge as a Northern army might desire, 

To bear provisions for a winter camp — 

They upturned lie ; and now the oaken planks 

Reach crosswise, pinned and spiked from end to end. 

Then, with dull chisel, and the noisy mallet, 

The swingling tow is driven into the seams, 

Till all are calked, and comes the black cement 

Of molten odorous pitch, which gives secure 

Protection 'gainst invasion of the wave. 

Anon, the monster hull, by levers reared, 

Heaves a great vault in air, and, righted thus, 

Lies ready for the launch. The rails are laid, 

And to the slippery slope the boat is given ; 

And, lo ! the wooden avalanche descends 

Sheer to the middle of the stream, to be 

Recalled by checking cables. As it strikes, 

One, 'mid loud shouts from the resounding shore, 

Breaks on the bow the deep baptismal flask ; 

And let our hopes with his be freely joined, 

"With heartfelt prayers that fair Prosperity 

May spread her pinions o'er the sailless ark ; 

For this the deck which Providence ordains 

To bear our travellers hence. A few swift days 

Go by : the boat is covered, and complete 

"Within and out. On either side the oars, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 147 

And one astern, from ashen sapling hewn — 
Each suppled, toughened many seasons through 
In sweeping rivers of the mountain wind — 
Droop, like unfolded wings half spread for flight. 
And now, in groups, unto the crowded wharf 
The various households gather with their wares, 
And soon hetake them to their floating home ; 
And, drawn in close assemblies on the deck, 
Gaze, wondering, at the tumult which they leave; 
Bidding adieu to Pennsylvanian shores, 
Which few, of all the crowd, shall tread again. 
When, suddenly, a well-known voice is heard, 
And all, delighted, hearken as it swells : — 

11 Lo, our waiting ark is freighted; 

In its depths of oak and pine 
All our household gods are gathered — 

Thine, my noble friend, and thine I 

" Here the laughter-loving children 

Gaze, with wonder-filling eyes, 
With the maidens whose emotions, 

Like the waters, fall and rise. 

" Here are youths whose westward fancies 

Chase the forest-sheltered game ; 
Here are men with soul and sinew 

Which no wilderness can tame. 

" Here are matrons full of courage — 

Worthy these the pioneers — 
And the patriarch lends a sanction 

In the wisdom of his years. 

"Axe and team, and plough and sickle, 

In the hold are gathered all ; 
And methinks I hear the woodlands, 

'Mid their thundering echoes, fall, 

" And behold the great logs blazing, 

Till the ashen fields are bare, 
And a boundless harvest springing — 

The response of toil and prayer ! 

"Draw the foot-board, loose the cables, 

Free the wharf, and man the oars ; 
Give the broad keel to the river, 

Bid adieu to crowded shores : 

"Wharves where Europe's venturous exiles 

Throng with all their hopes and cares — 
Sires of future States of freemen, 

Standing 'mid their waiting wares. 



143 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

11 Bid adieu the Iron City, 
With its everlasting roar 

"Whose Niagara of traffic 

Flows to westward evermore, 

" Where the cloud swings into heaven, 
And the furnace-flames disgorge, 

With the multitudinous clamor 
Of the factory and the forge. 

" In yon mountains, like the eagles, 
Brood the rivers at their springs, 

Then descend, with sudden swooping, 
On their far and flashing wings. 

" Here the dashing Alleghany 
And Monongahela meet, 

And a moment whirl and dally 
Hound the city's crowded feet ; 

" Till, anon, with wedded pinions, 
How they sweep the shores as one, 

Driving westward, ever westward, 
In the pathway of the sun. 

" Like a cloud upon the storm-wind, 
Now our heaving ark careers ; 

Or some great bridge which a freshet 
Bears in triumph from its piers. 

" Down we sweep ; and yonder steamer 
Smoking round the distant hill, 

With its swift wheel flashing splendor, 
Like the loud wheel of a mill, 

" Shall not fright us, though the waters 
Sweep our deck with foamy force, 

While the angel of Adventure, 

With true courage, guides our course. 

• " And the river, like our purpose, 
Brooks no voice which bids it wait, 
Bearing onward, ever onward, 
Where the forest opes its gate ; 

" Opes the gate that hung for ages, 
Rusting in its old repose, 

Which, once swung upon its hinges, 
There's no giant hand can close. 

■" Far beyond that ancient portal 
We will pitch our camp, nor rest 

Till from out our forest cabins 
Spring the homesteads of the West." 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 149 



BOOK TWENTY-FIFTH. 

Between the hills whose perforated sides 

Bleed to the watered banks, from veins of coal, 

The black bituminous mass, for days they float 

Delighted with the changing view. The shore, 

On either hand, a lovely landscape glides : 

And Beaver past, lo, presently appear 

The fields of other States. Here, on the left, 

Virginia, whose historic name recalls 

The scenes of chivalry and old romance — 

A State which lavished heroes, as a mountain. 

Gives to the land its rivers. The broad home 

Of Baleigh's hope and Pocahontas' love, 

Of Washington and Jefferson, and him 

Who, 'midst the cry of " treason," shook the world, 

Till Tyranny, with all his traitor band, 

Apace recoiled as billows to the blast. 

There on the right, behold, more newly freed 

From the grim forest's grasp, the lovely land 

Christened in honor of the stream which bears 

The produce of her fruitful farms afar. 

The time arrives when labor's iron doors 
Are closed upon the tumult of the week, 
Secure, as evening shuts behind the day; 
And, when the silent hour is ushered in, 
A dusky island on the river looms, 
Brooding above its shadow, like a cloud 
Bereft of all the winds — companionless, 
It hangs suspended o'er the inverted sky, 
Concealing half the river stars. And here 
The heavy ark unto the sheltering shore 
Glides noiseless, as an eagle swooping in 
To rest beneath the overarching limbs, 
And soon the cables hold it to the bank 
Among the watery willows. In the east, 
As red and wide as is the forge's mouth 
Oft seen 'mid Alleghanian hills, the moon — 
Like some great soul, aflush with earthly lusts, 
That nobly rises from its base estate — 
Ascends, each moment lessening from the stain, 
Until the heavens receive it pure and white. 
Invited b}' her ray, unto the shore 
The lovers wander through the sinuous paths, 
In happy freedom from the crowded deck, 
And Arthur to Olivia repeats 
The saddening tale of Blennerhasset's isle : — 

" Once came an exile, longing to be free, 
Born in the greenest island of the sea ; 
He sought out this, the fairest blooming isle 
That ever gemmed a river ; and its smile, 
Of summer green and freedom, on his heart 
Fell, like the light of Paradise. Apart 
13* 



150 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

It lay, remote and wild ; and in his breast 
He fancied this an island of the blest ; 
And here he deemed the world might never mar 
The tranquil air with its molesting jar. 
Long had his soul, among the strife of men, 
Gone out and fought, and, lighting, failed ; and then 
"Withdrew into itself; as when some fount 
Finds space within, and will no longer mount, 
Content to hear its own secluded waves 
Make lonely music in the new-found caves. 
And here he brought his household ; here his wife, 
As happy as her children, round his life 
Sang as she were an echo, or a part, 
Of the deep pleasure springing in his heart — 
A silken string which with the heavier cord 
Made music, such as well-strung harps afford. 
She was the embodied spirit of the man, 
His second self, but on a fairer plan. 
And here they came, and here they built their home, 
And set the rose, and taught the vines to roam, 
Until the place became an isle of bowers, 
"Where odors, mist-like, swam above the flowers. 
It was a place where one might lie and dream, 
And see the naiads, from the river-stream, 
Stealing among the umbrous, drooping limbs ; 
"Where Zephyr, 'mid the willows, tuned her hymns 
Round rippling shores. Here would the first birds throng, 
In early spring-time, and their latest song 
"Was given in autumn ; when all else had fled, 
They half forgot to go, such beauty here was spread. 
It was, in sooth, a fair enchanted isle, 
Eound which the unbroken forest, many a mile, 
Reached the horizon like a boundless sea ; — 
A sea whose waves, at last, were forced to flee 
On either hand, before the westward host, 
To meet no more upon its ancient coast. 
But all things fair, save truth, are frail and doomed ; 
And brightest beauty is the first consumed 
By envious Time; as if he crowned the brow 
With loveliest flowers, before he gave the blow 
"Which laid the victim on the hungry shrine : — 
Such was the dreamer's fate, and such, bright isle, was thine. 
' There came the stranger, heralded by fame. 
Whose eloquent soul was like a tongue of flame, 
Which brightened and despoiled whate'er it touched. 
A violet, by an iron gauntlet clutched, 
Were not more doomed than whosoe'er he won 
To list his plans, with glowing words o'errun : 
And Blennerhasset hearkened as he planned. 

" Far in the South there was a glorious land, 
Crowned with perpetual flowers, and where repute 
Pictured the gold more plenteous than the fruit — 
The Persia of the West. There would he steer 
His conquering course, and o'er the bright land rear 
His far-usurping banner, till his home 
Should rest beneath a wide, imperial dome, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 151 

"Where License, round his throned feet, should whirl 

Her dizzy mazes like an orient girl. 

His followers should be lords ; their ladies each 

Wear wreaths of gems beyond the Old World's reach ; 

And emperors, gazing to that land of bloom, 

With impotent fire of envy should consume. 

Such was the gorgeous vision which he drew. 

The listener saw; and, dazzled b} r the view — 

As one in some enchanter's misty room, 

His senses poisoned by the strange perfume, 

Beholds with fierce desire the picture fair, 

And grasps at nothing in the painted air — 

Gave acquiescence, in a fatal hour, 

And wealth, and hope, and peace were in the tempter's power. 

The isle became a rendezvous ; and then 

Came in the noisy rule of lawless men. 

Domestic calm, affrighted, fled afar, 

And Riot revelled 'neath the midnight star. 

Continuous music rustled through the trees, 

Where banners danced responsive on the breeze; 

Or in festoons, above the astonished bowers, 

With flaming colors shamed the modest flowers. 

There clanged the mimic combat of the sword, 

Like daily glasses round the festive board ; 

Here lounged the chiefs, there marched the plumed file, 

And martial splendor overrun the isle. 

Already, the shrewd leader of the sport 

The shadowy sceptre grasped, and swayed his court. 

In dreams or waking, revelling or alone, 

Before him swam the visionary throne; 

Until a voice, as if the insulted woods 

Had risen to claim their ancient solitudes, 

Broke on his spirit, like a trumpet rude, 

Shattering his dream, to nothing where he stood! 

The revellers vanished, and the banners fell, 

Like the red leaves beneath November's spell. 

Full of great hopes, sustained by mighty will, 

Urged by ambition, confident of skill, 

As fearless to perform as to devise, 

Aflush, but now he saw the glittering prize 

Flame like a cloud in day's descending track; 

But, lo, the sun went down, and left it black! 

Alone, despised, defiance in his eye, 

He heard the shout, and ' treason !' was the cry ; 

And that harsh word, with its unpitying blight, 

Swept o'er the island like an Arctic night. 

Cold grew the hearth-stone, withered fell the flowers, 

And desolation walked among the bowers. 

" This was the mansion. Through the ruined hall 
The loud winds sweep, with gusty rise and fall, 
Or glide, like phantoms, through the open doors ; 
And winter drifts his snow along the floors, 
Blown through the yawning rafters, where the stars 
And moon look in as through dull prison-bars. 
On yonder gable, through the nightly dark, 
The owl replies unto the dreary bark 



152 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Of lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill ; 
And here, on summer eves, the whippoorwill 
Exalts her voice, and to the traveller's ear 
Proclaims how Ruin rules with full contentment here.' 



BOOK TWENTY-SIXTH. 

Thus sang the poet-lover, 'mid the scenes 

"Where happiness once brooded like a dove. 

The mournful tale is ended with a sigh, 

And she who listened weeps ; and where they stand 

The sad moon ponders, like the ghost of Eve 

All night a-gazing on an Eden lost. 

The conjuring fancy fills the place with shapes, 

Holding their doubtful tryst; the o'ershadowed eye 

Peoples the dusk with phantoms ; and the ear, 

By keen imagination finely tuned, 

Like a light cord to fullest tension drawn, 

Vibrates to each accordant sigh of air, 

And hears a world of sounds, where ruder sense 

Would only note the silence. Did you hear ? 

Was it a rustle in the budding boughs, 

Or lone bird darting from his wakeful branch ? 

Did you not see ? — There, through the light, and there ! 

Was it a spirit swept across their path ? 

And hark again ! a sound as of a wave, 

Weary of rolling to a pitiless wind, 

Dashing its tired breast against a rock ! 

Near by, the river reels around a point, 

Sweeping from darkness into sudden light — 

So near, the lovers' slanting shadows glide, 

Bending together, o'er the dreamy bank. 

An instant Arthur gazes on the stream, 

And bounds aside, and leaps into the flood, 

And bears a dripping figure to the shore ; 

While, like a marble wonder, speechless stands 

The pale Olivia : even as one in sleep, 

Who fain would follow while the feet, enchained, 

Refuse their wonted office. On his arm 

The deluged form, with loosened, oozing locks, 

Hangs, like a sea-nymph, fainting ; from her face, 

Which to the moon's astonishment gives back 

A look of pallid sorrow, the hair smoothed, 

Displays the well-known features of their friend. 

Olivia, frighted, bends above the form, 

And calls her, " Amy ! Amy !" till the ear, 

Dulled with the water, hears, and the sad eyes, 

Bewildered, ope, as if to meet the shapes 

And scenes of other worlds — amazed, confused, 

Uncertain if an angel speaks her name, 

Or if a spirit bears her soul released. 

Conscious, at last, she clasps her bosom-friend, 

And sighs, " Forgive, forgive !" Sad heart, she feels 

The weight of crime attempted, } T et scarce knows — 

So tangled, like a delicate web, her brain — 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 153 

'Gainst whom or what ! But e'er the night is o'er, 

"While sits Olivia by the cabin couch, 

The sole receiver of her inmost thought — 

In concert to the under-going stream 

"Which, like the river of death, flows darkly near — 

She pours upon the sympathizing breast 

Her deep heart-drowning sorrow and her fears ; 

And both, together, weep the long night through, 

Or pray in union while their comrades sleep. 

Oh, Heaven, if e'er thy pitying angel stoops, 
As holiest faith believes, and in the hour 
Of fear and pain breathes his consoling voice, 
Like sounds of waters to the ear of one 
"Who droops in deserts lone — in this sad place 
Permit his wings to fold beside the couch, 
And bid him shed into the fainting soul 
The holy calm whence courage only springs ! 
The world is full of sadness : oft the smile 
Is but the flower, above decaying hopes, 
Blooming to hide a ruin. But a sight 
Saddest of all — sadder than sudden death — 
It is to see a young heart touched with frost, 
And all its freshness scattered to the wind ; — 
A heart which had been full of joy, all hope, 
All love, all trust, break from its hold of all, 
And, like an easy, noiseless bank of sand, 
Fall, crumbling by continuous degrees, 
Into the gulfy river of despair. 



BOOK TWENTY-SEVENTH. 

Adieu the island ! Lo, the Sabbath dawns, 

A cloudless April day. Still toward the West 

The broad stream bears them onward in its arms. 

On either shore, and through the neighboring fields, 

"While sounds the bell from yonder village spire, 

The unknown people throng. Then to the deck 

The various inmates of the ark collect, 

And round the pastor drawn, in pious groups, 

Flood the calm air with the melodious hymn ; 

While, as they pass the town, an answer comes, 

Like a clear echo, from the hill-side church. 

The melody into their hearts descends — 

The old familiar tune — till every breast 

Is waked to joy, and even the sternest eye 

Is moistened with a sympathizing mist. 

How beautiful, in such an hour and place, 

To hear from stranger lips unseen, perchance 

That never may be seen till met in heaven, 

The sacred sounds proclaiming brotherhood — 

The masonry of souls ! How beautiful ! 

In all the world of art — a wondrous world — 

I know no picture lovelier than to-day 

Melta o'er my vision. Chief amid the group — 

A dwindled portion of his former flock — 



154 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Each face familiar, all, as children, dear — 
The pastor stands, and on his loving arm 
Holds the great volume, and, with sunburnt hand, 
Turns o'er the intimate leaves. Ope where he will, 
The broad page greets him like a well-known friend. 
Near by, with white hair stirring to the breeze, 
Frail Master Ethan, leaning on his cane, 
Stands hat in hand. The matrons, on the deck, 
Sit with the children at their careful sides ; 
There youths and maids respectful posture hold ; 
And every man draws near, save those who lean 
And listen at the easy-moving oars. 

Suns rise and set, and still the boat glides on ; 
Peace rules the day, and music cheers the eve. 
Lo, on the south extends the lovely land 
Where strode the solitary man of old, 
Bursting upon the entangled night of woods, 
Like prophecy, proclaiming where he went 
The forest's fall, and the red man's decline ! 
Here the lone Nimrod of the pathless West 
Reigned with his rifle, and, through hostile wilds, 
Won to himself an empire undisturbed. 
His nights o'erhung with royal tents of boughs, 
His vernal board with venison was crowned, 
His cup with coolest crystal from the rocks ; 
And oft unto his morning throne of state — 
A crag which overbrowed. the stateliest woods — 
He mounted, and surveyed his wide domain, 
Deciding where to bend his further sway. 
Behind him, like the murmuring of the sea 
Which, to a constant wind, invades the shore, 
He heard the encroaching tumult of the world ; 
And, with the sun, strode on a few swift miles, 
Usurping, westward, what he eastward lost. 
Such was the realm of Boone, the pioneer, 4 
Whose statue, in the eternal niche of fame, 
Leans on his gleaming rifle ; and whose name 
Is carved so deep in the Kentuckian rocks, 
It may not be effaced. His glorious soul, 
Heroic among kindred hero souls, 
Now threads the boundless forest of the stars ;, 
While still his memory, like a spirit, walks 
With living influence in his favorite land. 

What means this sudden swelling of the stream, 
As if a thousand springs within its depths 
Had burst, like mighty geysers, to exalt 
The river's watery head, that, rising, roars, 
And frights the banks until they swoon and drown? 
Answer, ye nymphs, from out your turbid caves I 
For nymphs there are in this unclassic flood, 
Born of the savage muse in vanished years, 
Who peopled all the solitude with shapes, 
Whose spiritual whispers in the wind, 
The waters, and the woods, still charm the ear. 
A poesy, unwritten, floats abroad, 
So wide dispread, the echo-waking axe 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 155 

Shall not dispel it ; nor the busy plough 

Turn it beneath the furrows ; nor the train, 

Thundering along its iron way, affright ; 

Nor smoking barges, with their flashing wheels, 

Dislodge it from the waters. Every brook 

And tree, could we but comprehend the song, 

Is musical with voices not its own ; 

An influence of the primal time still lives, 

And breathes, and moulds us in our daily walks, 

And thus develops in us, unaware, 

A something of the earliest things which were. 

'Tis this which links us with the perfect plan, 

The chain which was, and is, and is to be. 

Even where I gaze, the fancy, in the stream, 

Pictures dim, liquid shapes which rise and sink, 

And sway in waves that ripple to the shore, 

Intoxicate in the redundant flood. 

There curved an arm, and there a bright face laughed, 

"With momentary eyes and lips disclosed, 

And sound of sinless kisses thrown, perchance, 

Erom watery fingers to the youths on deck. 

There swim the children of the Indian muse, 

Who ply at night the shadowy canoe, 

"While kindred forms, along the moonlit woods, 

Startle the phantom deer and wake the chase, 

Erom whence their sires have gone — forever gone. 

The man has fled, the spirit still remains — 

The substance less substantial than the shade. 

And still the river's sullied waters swell, 

Augmented by the melting mountain snows 

And plenteous April rains. Afar and near, 

The swift-careering drift chaotic flies, 

Borne on the thievish shoulders of the flood ; 

Great trees, whirled ruthless from their native banks, 

Sweep headlong, with their budding limbs all drowned, 

And roots fantastic raking through the air. 

These are the shapes that in the channel depths 

Of Mississippi lodge — the downward prongs 

Mining the sandy bed — the dreadful trunk 

Swaying aslant to gore the freighted ark. 

Here float the logs of some disjointed raft, 

And there the woodman's scattered cords! Enough 

Swims prodigal to build a nation's navy. 

At such a time as this, the wary crew 

Must needs, with well-manned oars, avoid the drift, 

While many a danger lies engulfed, unseen. 

And when the night comes on, as now it comes, 

And threatening clouds impend from east to west, 

While all the watery shore no harbor gives, 

With what misgivings, doubting hopes and fears, 

The venturous watchers ride into the dark, 

Where Providence assumes the swaying helm ! 

Loud sweeps the torrent ; but with louder voice 

Roars on the shoreless ocean of the wind, 

Bearing the dusky navies of the storm, 



156 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Along the hills gleam scattered cottage-lights, 
Mocking the homeless households where they float, 
Compassed with dangers which the starless night, 
With cruel kindness, veils. The startled sense, 
For every peril hid, beholds, thrice told, 
The horror painted on the blackened air ; 
While oft the fancy, drowning with the wreck, 
Dies momentary deaths. The grinding drifts 
Chafe hoarsely at their thin and creaking walls 
With frightful discord, and the ominous waves 
Dash at the rude partition, as in scorn, 
Striking with multitudinous hands. The lights, 
Before and aft, dispense their scanty rays — 
How spectral, thin, and ineffectual ! — 
Which oft the sheeted lightning in the south, 
With sudden brilliance, dims, and shows the guard, 
An instant, where to set the helm and where 
To ply the sidelong oar. Thus speeds the ark ; 
And midnight rules the wild tempestuous hour. 
On deck the men are gathered by the oars ; 
Below, the women sit in dreary groups, 
W r aiting and listening: some with infants clasped, 
Convulsive, on the breast, while at their feet 
The older children crowd, their terror drowned 
In unrecording sleep. But hark ! the shock ! 
The shout above ! the shriek below ! the neigh 
Of frighted steeds ! Fear rules the scene. On deck 
All crowd with straining eyes, which naught discern 
Save random lights on shore. Their course is stopped 
And, lo, a noon-like sheet of lightning flames, 
And shows their ark 'mong rafts and steamers lodged; 
W T hile, like a vision in delirium seen, 
A midnight city, with its sudden spires, 
Springs on their sight — a marvellous instant springs — 
Then vanishes in night, and leaves them naught 
But wild conjecture which must wait the dawn. 
The storm is past ; a cloudless day awakes, 
And to the wondering multitudes on deck 
A glorious city spreads its- welcoming arms — 
The Queen Metropolis of inland States — 
Which, like a mighty heart, receives and gives, 
Swelling through all the body of the land 
The pulsing veins of trade. In foundry yards 
Loud hammers ring upon the boilers huge — 
Too oft the ominous knell of future deaths, 
Wrought by destruction in the sudden air, 
Making a murderous gap a nation feels. 
In each great bolt, 'twixt double sledges clinched,- 
What lives are wedged — a life for every blow ! 
Bold wielder ! strike again, and still again, 
Lest that the careless stroke hereafter fall, 
With triple weight, on many an aching heart ! 
Along the sloping wharf the giant keels 
Swing by their cables, e'en as monsters chained, 
Frighting the sky with hot discordant breath 
Heaved from their lungs of fire ; and noisy Toil 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 157 

Lays his brown shoulders to the southern hale, 

Or rolls the cask ashore, where Commerce stands 

Smiling among the mountainous freight, and sends 

Her northern product back. Time was, my friend — 

Thou, who beneath thine own Catawba vine 5 

Sittest, like autumn in a plenteous land, 

Crowned with the fruits of heavy labors past, 

.Forgetting not thy reapers, nor the poor 

Gleaning amid the stubble — when thy feet 

Here paced the sod primeval, while the trees 

Stretched their defiant branches unalarmed. 

Then were yon hills — which now the reaching streets, 

Audacious, climb with all a city's din — 

Templed within a Sabbath shade of woods ; 

And where the eagle, on the topmost branch, 

Gazed at the sun unstartled, nightly, now, 

In its high tower, the astronomic glass 

Sweeps the blue space to mightier suns than ours. 

Within thy memory, on this self-same ground, 

A forest and a giant city stand. 

When now the day discloses all the scene — 
The thronging wharf, and their own ark half wrecked — 
The adventurers hold a solemn council hour, 
And in the small republic, on the deck, 
Discuss their future course. Some, unappalled, 
Call for repairs ; impatient to be on, 
Some urge a transfer to the rapid barque, 
Whose flashing wheels shall bear them quickly through ; 
But they whose hands grew brown upon the plough, 
And they who jo\'ed to drive the well-fed team 
And laden wain to market, once more sigh 
To feel the solid earth beneath their feet, 
To wind their way 'twixt farms and thorough woods, 
Hewing, if need be, their own forest-path. 
This plan is carried ; and their various wagons 
Are rolled ashore, and the delighted steeds, 
Pawing the ground, receive the accustomed gears, 
The collar and the rein ; and all, well pleased, 
Assume their places, and take up their march. 
The suburbs now, and now the hills, receive 
The winding line ; and soon amid the fields, 
The city lost, they note the stretching road 
Inviting on and on. Another State, 
AVith noble farms usurping glorious woods, 
Now bids them welcome, and still cheers their course ; 
While, day by day, the sidelong forests grow 
To longer stretches, and the new-made fields, 
Rougher with fallen logs and girdled trunks, 
Occur less frequent with their lessening homes. 



14 



158 THE NEW PASTORAL. 



BOOK TWENTY-EIGHTH. 

Where a far prairie pours its yearly flood 

Of verdure to a forest's dusky foot, 

And where a stream to Mississippi flows 

In endless vassalage, and where the beaver, 

Like the red Indian and the buffalo, 

Flying before the fast-encroaching plough, 

The sickle, and the mill, hath fled so late, 

Scared by the trapper from his watery door — 

While his small homestead, in the liquid plain, 

With empty threshold looks abroad amazed — 

And where the breastwork still retards the stream, 

To hint and aid the future miller's dam ; 

Where, through the woodland depth, the wild deer's track 

Still shows the hoof-prints leading to the brink, 

And, on the opposing shore, the larger path 

Worn by the prairie herds athirst ; behold 

One small, rude hut of bark and motley skins 

Sits, like a tired hunter, on the bank, 

Companionless and still. Half drawn ashore, 

A rough canoe lies dreaming ; and, near by 

The forest Selkirk, sitting with his dog, 

Fondles his rifle and resets the flint. 

He is of those who, like the venturous bees, 

Herald the nation following in their wake — 

An advance courier of a world of men — 

A scout, from civilization's onward line, 

Sent to inspect the forest's savage camp. 

Silent he muses, and athwart his brow 

Thoughts and their shadows pass like autumn clouds. 

Perchance he walks, in the departed years, 

Along some green New England vale, — a child, 

Led by a parent, while his happy heart 

Throbs, like an echo, to the Sabbath bell. 

Dear faces rise, and loving voices speak ; 

A mother's hand smooths back his boyish hair ; 

A sister's glowing arms are round his neck ; 

Or, later, through the scented hay-field strolls, 

Or sits beside the rose-embowered door, 

With one whose snowy garment past his soul 

Now rustles like an angel's floating robe. 

Perchance — but no ; his rough and sunburnt hand 

Dashes the vision from his half-blurred gaze ; 

His swift eye sweeps the prairie to its verge, 

And, like an arrow, darts through umbrous woods, 

Where desolation owns him for its lord. 

Hark! is't a panther leaping through the boughs? 
Or wild buck flying from pursuit of wolves ? 
Or steeds, which never knew the curb of rein 
Neighing along the prairie? 'Tis a sound 
Unusual to his startled ear. The dog 
Recoils unto his master's feet, and listens. 
But soon the accustomed eye discerns the cause ; 



TEE NEW PASTORAL. 159 

And on the trapper's gaze the obnoxious gleam, 

From the white covers of approaching wains, 

Strikes on his spirit, like the light of ghosts, 

Seen in a long abhorrent train. His soul 

Shrinks from the vision, and within him cries, 

" Is there no shelter from the reach of men? 

Or must I, like the westward-going game, 

Lie down in fear, and only wake to fly? 

Or, like the tired courser of the plain, 

Yield me unto the lasso, and submit 

To wear the rein, and feel the daily whip 

"Which civilization wields, and be a slave 

Where I have been so free? Or lay my hand 

Against this brotherhood of trees, and be, 

At last, a traitor to the wilderness ?" 

Sullen he stands, and notes the line approach ; 

And when a shout goes up among the limbs, 

" Here will we pitch our camp and build our homes," 

He tears the prop from 'neath his cabin roof, 

And from the ruin takes his load of skins, 

Shoves his canoe from shore, and, with his dog, 

Glides o'er the silent waters out of sight. 



BOOK TWENTY-NINTH. 

When comes the eve — and in these antique woods 
Eve comes before its time, and the deep night 
With double darkness falls — then springs the blaze 
Of crackling camp-fires ; while the astonished trees, 
Half lighted, stand and murmur their surprise 
To others crowding in the shade behind ; 
And many a bird with fascinated wonder, 
And stealthy beast, with wide unwinking stare 
And fixed amazement, gaze with silent fear, 
Till night is robbed of half its dreary noise. 
There stands the pastor 'mid his little flock, 
And opes the wonted volume ; while beside, 
Young Arthur holds the flaming torch of pine, 
Where all draw round and hearken till the close. 
Then suddenly the evening hymn is given, 
Thrilling the leaves with pleasure where it floats, 
And, for the first, this ancient forest hears 
The melody of well-accorded souls 
Breathing of Christian peace ; while Desolation, 
Pained with prophetic music, stands withdrawn, 
Like some lone Indian, last of all his tribe, 
Drooping upon his unstrung bow. Then prayer 
And silence rule the camp. Near by — perchance 
An arrow-shot beyond — there is a rock 
Which overlooks the stream ; the ripples break 
About its giant foot, and from its brow 
The light vines, growing many a season down, 
Trail their long fingers o'er the shadowy pool. 
To gain its top, and wait the rising moon, 



1G0 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Which, large and flaming as a chariot-wheel, 
Now rolls among the eastern stars, with joy 
The lovers pass, and muse upon the scene. 
And fancy tells how this exalted spot 
Hath been, in its oblivion of years, 
The happy altar where young love hath tamed 
The savage heart, until the wild soul felt 
The tranquil pleasure which 'tis ours to know 
Beside the Christian hearth. Or here, perchance, 
In desperate hour, some Indian maid, forlorn, 
Hath to the midnight flung her streaming hair, — 
Plunged, like the pleiad, to be known no more. 
Around, below, the world is silent, dark, 
Or waked by wild, uncomprehended sounds, 
Making the solitude more lone; as when 
Some star-led watcher, on a noiseless deck, 
Hears the far waves communing with themselves. 
Speechless they rest, and gaze into the sky 
On that white path of splendor, like the track 
Left by a vessel on the midnight sea — 
Foamy, phosphorent, nebulous, and strange — 
The highway of the universe, perchance, 
And populous with mightier worlds than this. 
From out the dusk of that deep silent wood, 
They pore upon the heavens with wandering thought- 
More 'wildered as it wanders through the maze 
And intricate bright tangle of the stars — 
Until each soul recoils into itself, 
Amazed, confounded, shrinking with a sigh, — 
Which sigh, interpreted aright, proclaims, 
" How great, eternal, boundless, and sublime ! 
And we, how frail and insignificant I — 
The merest dust upon the wings of time, 
Which a rude breath, or the destroyer's finger, 
Dislodges, and we pass and know not where !" 
Oh, man, in thy most proud and pompous hour — 
Or in the feast among the costly bowls — 
Or throned upon ambition's dizzy top, 
Where slaves, unto your slightest bidding, fly 
As leaves before a gust — go boldly forth, 
And look upon the silence of the stars ; 
And though your frame be armored up in gold, 
Your great soul mailed in pride, their quiet light 
Shall dwindle you to nothing where you stand ; 
Your arrogant spirit be a point so small, 
That you shall tremble lest that God's own eye 
Shall not discern you, fluttering in the dust, 
And leave you there, eternalty forgot I 
But where two souls are, and, with love between, 
Not self-reliant all, but each on each 
Leaning reciprocal, and both on God, 
Not long the gloom of the primeval wood, 
Or the pro founder melancholy shade 
Pervading space, can overveil their hearts : 
For so divine a sentiment is theirs, 
The soul dilates where others only shrink, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. \Q\ 

And, as with angels' eyes, sees all things through 
The mellow, purple light of Paradise, 
Making a dawn where others feel the dark. 



BOOK THIRTIETH. 

Behold the morn ! and now begins the toil. 
The first loud axe alarms the forest's shade ; 
And there the first tree falls, and, falling wide, 
With spreading arms that tear their downward way- 
Strips the adjacent branches ; the loud crash 
Thunders to heaven, and the astonished sun 
Looks down the murderous gap. Thus, ever thus, 
In the community of men, a wrong 
To one deals injury to many more. 
Hark, how the roar runs echoing through the woods, 
And every oldest oak and sycamore 
Thrills with prophetic feeling of its fall. 

Now marks each laborer his future home ; 
And wheresoe'er a spring gives out its rill, 
There grows the first rude temporary hut — 
Named, in the language of the pioneer, 
"The half-faced camp"' — of hurried saplings built, 
And bound by withes of vines, and roofed with bark. 
In open air the steaming caldrons swing, 
While the blue smoke sweeps up among the limbs, 
Tangled, impeded; where, far over all, 
The forest eagle, circling, sails amazed. 
Some on the prairie stake their future hearths, 
Crossing the river at its nearest ford ; — 
There, where the crystal o"er the pebbles slides, 
Leaving the imprint of the earliest wheels 
Which ever pressed these cool, delicious sands. 
Days come and go : at every break of dawn — 
While yet the gibbous moon, above the west. 
Hangs like a ghostly fragment of white cloud — 
The youths are forth to find the forest game ; 
And oft the prairie to the woodland gives 
The rifle's shrill alarm ; and many a morn, 
Ere the red sun hath climbed his first slant hour, 
The dun deer from the bended shoulder falls, 
Prone, at the cabin door. Still sounds the axe. 
For many weeks the heavy forests fall, 
And, falling, groan aloud, and, groaning, die; 
And, dying, yield their vernal souls in smoke, 
And sink in crumbled ashes to the ground, 
Which the rough plough, among the jagged roots 
Oft stalled, with difficult progress turnsbeneath 
The black and antique mould. And now behold 
The various crops are sown, and in the soil 
Await the genial rain and summer sun, 
To swell the primal harvest of the land. 
This done, the pioneer may breathe a day ; 
And, looking round him, choose a fitter spot 
To rear his home and plant his cabin ground. 
14* 



162 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Then follows trimming of the fallen logs ; 

The hewing, and the rolling into place, 

Occasion oft of many a festive scene, 

"When come the neighbors, each with axe or team, 

Accomplishing, by well-concerted strength, 

In one short day a heavy season's task. 

Behold, even now, upon the gentle slope, 

And near the spring which, from its rocky urn, 

Pours down a runnel through a bed of moss, 

The wooden dwelling must be reared to-day, 

And Baldwin points the spot. With axe, and adze, 

And sledge, and iron bar, and voices glad, 

The laborers come, and make the toil a play. 

Some place the trunks, while others notch, and hew, 

And fit the ends, until, with log on log, 

The walls ascend — at either corner manned — 

Until, at last, against the evening sky 

They stand complete, and, in the golden sun, 

The mounted toilers glow like sentinels 

Upon a tower of old ; and now the eve, 

"With mirth and music filled, concludes the scene. 

Thus, while the crops are springing, spring the homes, 

And ruder garners for the winter store, 

Till, lo, a village smiles along the stream ; 

And all the air, with odors of the wood 

Fresh-hewn, o'erfloods the place with redolence, 

Sweeter than winds from far magnolian isles. 

Gratefully to the ear the various sounds 
Of pastoral life discourse : the lowing kine, 
The neighing steeds, and early-crowing cocks — 
Which, like clear silver bells, awake the dawn — 
The ox\\y bells which mark the forest hours, 
Till, hark ! the smith's half-sheltered anvil rings, 
And the light sparkles star the morning dusk. 
And there the wheelwright rolls his first stout wheel 
To take the burning tire ; while at the stream, 
Where toiled the beaver, lo, the breastwork grows, 
And whistling builders labor 'mid their logs. 
Here, in the pleasant sunny afternoons, 
Old Master Ethan takes his little flock ; 
And in the shade of one great forest-tree, 
Left to embower the parson's summer door, 
On new-fallen timber seats them round, and there 
Sets up the moderate by-laws of his school. 
And the low murmur of the urchins' lips 
Floats on the air, commingling with the sound 
Of whispering leaves that flicker overhead ; 
And, when the task is done, with rod and line 
He strolls the woods along the sunset stream. 

Ere many weeks go by, still other trains, 
Fresh-breathing of the East, arrive, and fright 
The farther forest with the flashing axe. 
There, foremost in the crowd to welcome them, 
Pale Amy stands, with disappointed gaze, 
And sadly questions every newest comer 
If he has seen or heard, upon the road, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 163 

Aught of a youthful wagoner or horseman, 

Hailing from Hazelmead, and bound this way. 

And oft the shaken head, or careless " No," 

Strikes through her eye or ear, until her heart 

Tolls in her bosom like a bell of death. 

Lo ! once again, upon that starlit rock, 

"Where there shall come no smiling moon to-night ; 

For she is gone behind her wonted veil, 

Gone to her monthly cloister of deep shade, 

To clear her brow, in silent penitence, 

Of painful memories of nightly ills 

Which she beheld on earth.— Lo, once again, 

And e'en the stars seem shrinking in the blue ; 

And o'er the prairie's unreflecting waves 

The black southwest exalts its stormy wings, 

And the hot light, fanned from those gusty vans, 

Darts up the sky in sudden, transient dawns ; 

While o'er the stream, and o'er the sultry grass, 

The myriad fire-flies mimic the far cloud. — 

Lo ! once again ; but not the tranquil scene, 

Where love led fancy in a 'wildered maze, 

Through constellated gardens in the blue ; 

But holier, if holier can be. 

Step lightly; for 'tis God's deep, chastening sorrow 

Usurps the hour, and fills its solemn task. 

Two forms are there ; and one, with posture prone, 

Hides her sad face upon the other's lap. 

" I wait, and wait, and yet he will not come; 

My mother chides me for my fruitless grief; 

My father frowns upon me at his board : 

Oh, better I had died before I loved ! 

Oh, better I had floated with the stream, 

Floated, and drowned among the muddy drift 1" 

Whereat the other clasps her in her arms, 

And, speaking, smooths aside her tear- wet hair: 

" We have been friends from childhood's early time, 

When we went tottering truants to the field, 

And lost ourselves among the harvest grass ; 

And we were friends together in the school, 

Walking the path, at morn and eve, with hands 

Locked each in each; and we were doubly friends, 

When first we interchanged, in whispers low, 

The secrets of our loves." And when misfortune 

Falls, like a tree beneath whose shade we built, 

Not dreaming of the storm, shall we not be, 

As now we are, with triple friendship bound? 

Look up, dear friend, and kiss me for reply. 

E'en though an unkind father closed his door, 

Another stands, inviting, open wide; 

And when my Amy hath nowhere to rest, 

Olivia shall be homeless. Cheer, take cheer ! 

The dreadful sea you shuddered to behold, 

Is but a troubled verdure, like the prairie, 

Which, from the distance, looks an ocean wide, 

But nearer seen becomes a flowery pasture. 

And look ! the cloud, which threatened from afar, 



164 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Sails, like a ship, around the verge remote, 
And leaves us undismayed !" 



BOOK THIRTY-FIKST. 

Onward still, 
The giant movement goes with rapid pace, 
And civilization spreads its arms abroad ; 
While the cleared forest-lands look gladly up, 
And nod their harvest plumes. The summer speeds ; 
And many a whispering field of wheat and rye 
Gleams, like a yellow sunshine, in the woods. 
The grain, deep-standing, half conceals below 
The primal roughness, where the reaper yet 
Must take his difficult way ; and there the maize, 
"With stalwart growth, as native to the soil, 
"Waves its tall martial tops, and gayly wears 
Its tassels of soft silk. A few more days — 
Behold the toilers lay their sickles by, 
And all the sheaves are bound. Oh,' happy time I 
What season of the year so bright as this? 
The labor done, the sultrj 7 crops are in, 
And now they celebrate with harvest rites ; 
As in the dear and distant vales and years. 
In shadowy ages of the Pagan past, 
The " harvest home" was scene of sacrifice ; 
There the fat swine poured its red life away 
Upon the altar stone; and, at the shrine 
Sacred to Sylva, flowed the dairy flood. 
To-day a kindred sacrifice is made ; 
But, with improved sense, the modern dame 
Gives from h.er oven the well-garnished meat, 
With crisped rind, and savory with green ; 
And in great jars, fresh-dripping, icy-cool, 
Cooled in the crystal at the shady spring, 
The snow-white fluid gleams ; where, not less white, 
Is spread the crimped cloth beneath the trees, 
O'er which the flecks of sun, on golden wings, 
Flutter 'mid phantom leaves. The sports begin, — 
The various games which please the rural mind 
And knit the manly frame. Some throw the ball; 
From hand to hand the little messenger, 
Swift as a meteor, flies. Beside the stream, 
On plushy beds of greenest moss and grass, 
The wrestlers ply the old Olympian game ; 
Struggling in friendly war, as struggled once — 
So sings Jove's laureate — the heroes two, 
Ajax and Ulysses, when Achilles 
Bade the great game begin and end, and gave 
To both, so equally they strove, the meed 
Of well-earned victory. Through sun and shade, 
Some in the foot-race emulate the deer ; 
Or, like the wild buck startled from his lair, 
Leap the incredible space. While others bend 
And lift the monster weight which, heaved beyond, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 165 

Deep dents the soil, and shakes the adjacent ground. 

But, yonder, mark the sport which pleases most, 

And most to be approved. Whirling in air, 

The swift quoit cleaves its long and graceful arch, 

And strikes, half buried in the soil, aslant, 

Beside the well-marked spot ; on which a second, 

"With equal aim, oft clangs with fier} r glance, 

Flying aside 'mid shouts of those who win ; 

Or, with still nicer judgment sent, descends, 

And crowns the difficult meg. Behold yon form 

The moment when the balanced ring is sped — 

The foot advanced — the expanded chest — the arm, 

An instant stretched with open hand — the eye 

Following the iron flight, e'en as an archer's 

Chases his winged shaft ! No nobler shape, 

Or freer movement of the form divine, 

May charm the artistic sight \ So stands to-day 

The sculptured Greek in Some : as if great Jove, 

Thrilling with admiration at the scene, 

Had turned the man to marble when he threw, 

And made the act immortal, that, henceforth, 

The Parian shape should nobly teach the world 

The manliest classic game. Far through the woods 

Ramble fair bands of happy youths and maids ; 

And noisy children, curious in their search, 

Proclaim the novel wonders where they go. 

There blooms some unknown flower ; and there hangs, 

To ripen in the autumn frost, the wild 

Banana of the North ; and, lowly, there 

The golden mandrakes, odorous, profuse, 

Drag down their yellow stalks. Betw.een the trees, 

As through an antique colonnade o'ergrown 

With moss and creeping vines, the lovers walk, 

Musing, delighted, on the marvellous wild ; 

Here, gaze in wonder on the monster path 

Where strode the great tornado, summers past, 

O'erturning trees whose giant roots in air 

Rose, like a barricade, behind its flight; 

Or here, their light steps fright the astounded squirrel, 

W T hich flies the prone logs to its native tree. 

Behold these pillared trunks, which, ere they prop 

Their rafter limbs, and cornice of deep green, 

O'ertop the tallest oak in cultured fields ; 

Here Europe's groves might grow, and wave beneath, 

Nor graze their plumes against the lowest branch : 

Here hangs, as if from heaven, the antique vine, 

Or clasps the trunk with anacondian coils ! 

And where the younger festoon, like a rope 

Drooping between two mast-heads to the deck, 

Sways in the wind, inviting to the young, 

The woodland people, in their boisterous mirth, 

Usurp the swing, and sweep the shadowy air. 

Ye who condemn the red man's tameless life, 

Go forth into the primal forest depth, 

And feel the freedom which pervades its shade; 

There taste the fruit upon uncultured stalks, 



166 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

And slake your thirst at fountains, sunless, cool ; 
There note the game your every step shall start, 
And you shall find, in your own Christian breast, 
A savage spirit, pleading to remain, 
Claiming its ancient patrimonial right. 

But hark, upon the breath of afternoon, 
A sound is floating, and all stand to hear ; 
And e'en the birds sit listening in amaze ; 
In delicate notes, alternate heard and lost, 
Breathed from the rosined cordage of the viol, 
It flows from out the clearing, and, at once, 
All guess the call, and hasten to the scene, 
Where dance and mirth fill up the fading hours. 



BOOK THIKTY-SECOND. 

Of all the lovely seasons of the year, 
None is so full of majesty as this, 
When red October, like a king of old — 
As wise as rich, and generous as wise — 
Smiles on the untaxed garners of the land. 
The fields lie cleared and brown; and all the woods 
Gleam with a mellow splendor, where the gold 
Vies with the purple and the crimson glory, — 
The sunset of the year. Whence soon shall follow 
The gusty twilight of November days ; 
Then the dull, rainy eve, till Winter comes, 
Like a white moonlight night, and shuts the scene 
With his pervading snow. The prairie grass 
Sways, seethes, and dryly rustles in the air — 
A harvest sound, where only fire shall reap ; 
And over all an azure mist is spread, 
Silent and dreamy, where the autumn sun 
Eolls flushed and large ; and, through the smoky sky, 
The airy eagle, like a pirate barque, 
Sails, tacks, and veers, and looks abroad for prey. 
Now that the heavier tasks are done, the woods 
Ring and re-echo, and the cabin walls 
Are coated o'er with furry skins, to dry ; 
While oft the eve, beside the blazing fire, 
Beholds the moulding of the murderous balls. 
But, now, what means this early morning stir, 
This general voice, and merriment abroad? 
On restive steeds the assembled hunters mount ; 
The powder-oxhorn at each girdle hangs, 
Swung like the forest-bugle worn of old. 
There weighs the laden pouch ; and, in the belt, 
The smaller fire-arms slant ; while, in the hand, 
The polished rifle gleams, and coils of rope 
Hang at the saddle-bow, — a lasso rude. 
And lo ! the cavalcade across the stream 
Dashes, with shouts, toward the prairie lands ! 
O'er the far plains, in dim and dusky lines, 
Moving like wave on wave, their sight discerns, 
Or fancies it discerns, the bison herd 



THE NEW PASTORAL. Ift 

"Which roams the vernal sea ; and, like a crew 
That notes on the horizon, vague, remote, 
Their giant prey, which spouts the brine in air, 
And from the vessel drops, in venturous boats, 
Striking abroad upon the billowy deep — 
The pioneers sweep up against the wind, 
Spreading as they approach, to circumvent, 
That each may choose his victim from the flock, 
And, as he passes, send the bolt of death. 
Thus speed they on, with weapons grasped secure, 
And near and near — more cautious as they near — 
"Widening the snary crescent of their line — 
Till, lo ! the bearded patriarch of the herd 
Exalts his front, and gives the quick alarm ! 
A sea of heads and horns is in the air ; 
And, swift as yeasty waves before the gale, 
Sweeps the full tribe, with their innumerous hoofs 
Making continuous shudder in the ground, 
Loud and tremendous, as when through the cane 
Roars the tornado ! Now the chase begins ; 
And, presently, the volleyed rifles ring, 
While here and there the dying monster drops ; 
Or, wounded, leaves behind the sanguine trail, 
Till, fainter and more faint, he staggers, sinks, 
While his pursuer tracks his flying mate. 
Or see yon giant, where he stands at bay, — 
The flashing eyeballs and the foaming mouth, — 
The foam half crimson! From his fated side 
The red stream pours, and still he bravely fronts 
The assailing hunter, thrusting left and right, 
And oft the wary charger, with his rider, 
Darts from the plunging horns ; and, as he fights, 
He feels the numbing pain within his breast, 
The leaden foe his fury cannot reach ! 
Still he resists ; and slowly fails and fails — 
His eyes grow filmy, and his sight is dim — 
Sullen, from side to side, the great bulk sways — 
The wide plain reels around him, and he falls, 
And lifeless lies the hero of the herd ! 

What though the muse attempt the murderous scene, 
Her spirit finds small pleasure in the song, 
And shrinks before the vision she has drawn ; 
The sounds grate harshly, and seem out of tune, 
Jarring against each other. Rather far 
Her eye adventurous sweeps the distant hill, 
And follows Arthur, where, with glittering hoofs, 
His charger o'er the billows of the plain 
Mounts and descends, to take the prairie-steed 
Grazing among its fellows. The wild group, 
W^ith nostrils wide, soon note the scented air ; 
And o'er the ridge the unshod coursers speed, 
Giving their streaming manes unto the wind, 
Like that mad team which charioted the sun, 
Flying afar, eccentric, unrestrained, 
With Phaeton behind. In hot pursuit 
The guided charger sweeps, and, taking oft 



168 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

A shorter course direct, still intercepts, 

And, straining every muscle, nears and nears, 

Until the fatal cord is sped, and falls, 

And the wild creature feels the tightening snare, 

And yields at last unto the lariat curb ; 

Then, led in triumph to its captor's friends, 

Stands with wide eyes of wonder. < When the sun 

Pitches his blazing camp along the west, 

Following their lengthening shadows, stretching home, 

The laden hunters ride ; and in the dusk 

Behold their lire-lit windows, like the stars, 

Smile in the darkening east. The plain is passed ; 

Their doors receive them ; and throughout the eve, 

Beside the autumn fire, sit gray-haired men, 

And maids, and matrons, and the wondering young, 

Listening the marvellous history of the day, 

Where oft the shadow}' people on the wall 

Leap up, and clap their visionary hands. 

Again the pictured bison toss away, 

Shouldering o'er tangled grass — again the chase — 

Again the bleeding giant fights and dies. 

Musing and marvelling Master Ethan sits, 

While o'er his chair Olivia leans, and hears 

The glowing language which her lover breathes ; 

And when again the lariat takes the steed, 

And the wild creature struggles with the noose, 

Her wonder half to chastening pity melts. 

So great the pleasure of the eventful time, 

Each sighs to think of those, left far behind, 

Who dream beside their tame ancestral hearths, 

Dozing monotonous lives away, and longs 

To pour into their ears the exciting theme, 

And woo them to the West. Here, drawn apart, 

Pale Amy listens, mourning in her soul, 

Thinking of one who also, 'mong the rest, 

Might have repeated to her charmed ear 

The wild exploit, and, 'mid the smiles of all, 

Eeturned the long-praised hero of the chase. 

But hark, the song awakes the shadowy eve : — 

" Form the ring, and pile the fire ; 
Swell the chorus, like a choir, 
While the minstrel wakes his lyre, 

Bound with garlands never sere. 
And, like holy stars arisen 
From their orient blue prison, 
Joy shall mount, and Peace shall listen, 
While the social hearth shall glisten, 

On the newly-found frontier. 

" Let no dull regret remind us 
Of the homes which lie behind us, 
Or the tear of memory blind us 

To the world of beauty here : 
Let the past retain its pleasure, 
While the present, without measure, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 169 

Opes the promised land of treasure, 
"Where wide Freedom's dome of azure 
Overbends the far frontier. 

" Soon the forest, like the bison, 

Shall enrich the land it dies on, 

And the ground, its shade now lies on, 

Smile in harvests broad and clear. 
Then the gloom these lands inherit, 
Like a shadow from the spirit 
"When the world rewards its merit, 
Shall depart — the sun shall scare it — 

From the bountiful frontier. 

" Then, alone, within the furrow, 
Or in woodland alleys narrow, 
Shall some flint-head of the arrow 

Speak of tribes long sped from here ; 
Or the children, while they're playing, 
Find the stone axe in their straying, 
Or the lone wigwam decaying — 
The last fading signs betraying 

"Who once ruled the dark frontier. 

" Round our barques yon stream shall ripple , 
On yon bank rise church and steeple, 
"Where the bell to busy people 

Shall ring, hourly, silver- clear. 
And the eagle, sailing airy, 
"With his downward glances wary, 
Shall behold the swift scene vary 
Over forest, stream, and prairie* 

Wondering at the changed frontier. 

" And his wings shall mount, affrighted, 
O'er the scene so strangely lighted, 
And to "Western wilds, benighted, 

Take his marvelling career; 
Yet, before his flight he urges, 
From the clearing's noisy verges, 
He shall see the silvery surges 
On the mill-wheel, hear the forges 

"Which shall wake the far frontier. 

"And 'mid scenes of peaceful culture, 
Shall the dove succeed the vulture, 
Ere the pioneer's sepulture 

Tolls the bell or starts the tear. 
And our State from its probation 
Soon shall take its glorious station 
In the union of the nation, 
And the coming generation 

"Westward seek a new frontier." 

The song is done. Lo, through the casement seen, 
A marvellous light along the southern sky 
15 



170 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Flames with an angry hue — as in the east, 
Oft, o'er the full and yet unrisen moon, 
The strange light hlots through veils of evening mist — 
While, like an eagle's shadow, o'er the plain 
The frequent deer flies north. The hungry wolf 
Forgets his prey, and prowls into the woods ; 
The frighted steed, with many an unknown shape, 
Sweeps past beneath the stars — as when at sea 
The speeding tribes proclaim the foe behind. 
And still the great light, on the prairie's verge, 
Springs like the boreal glow in winter seen, — 
A spectral, melancholy dawn : as if 
The south would fling the north its splendors back ; 
Or earth, like some great vessel sideward thrown, 
Had far careened, and from the tropics brought 
The red, unnatural morn. And, thicker still, 
Pour on the heterogeneous herds. And now 
A roar sweeps wide upon the sultry air — 
As when the wind, wet with Niagara's mist, 
Bears the perpetual thunder leagues away — 
It nears and nears. " The prairie is on fire !" 
And the announcement flies from door to door, 
Swift as from tent to tent a call to arms, 
"When down the distance pours the assailing foe — 
" The prairie is on fire!" And on the wind 
The red tornado spreads its blighting wings — 
Fearful and splendid in magnificent rage — 
Chasing the frantic dwellers of the plain, 
Flying in reckless terror. Such the scene — 
Abhorrent, awful, wonderful, sublime — 
Which passed o'er Milton's inward sight, what time 
He saw the infernal lake, when from the fire 
The shadowy demons, to their master's call, 
Sped in a cloud confused. Around the homes, 
Pitched on the prairie's side, fear rules the scene ; 
' And consternation throbs in every breast, 
And stupefies the needed ready mind; 
Till one, with cooler presence than the rest, 
Grasps the great blazing brand, and wildly flies, 
And streaks the grass with flame. The powdery mass 
Flashes and roars ; and, w r ith its mane of fire, 
Drives left and right ; and, flickering to the skies, 
Darts o'er the plain to west, and north, and south ; 
And, with the other merging, leaves the space 
Where stand the anxious pioneers agaze, 
While many a prayer of thankfulness ascends. 



BOOK THIKTY-THIKD. 

The skies are clouded, and the sad winds sweep, 
Wailing along the forest, like a bard 
Pouring a requiem upon his harp. 
All sights and sounds are dreary ; and the pipe, 
So long attuned to pleasurable exploits, 
Breathes like a widowed night-bird unconsoled. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 171 

A melancholy wide pervades the air ; 

"Whence falls the shadow ? what invisible hand 

Spreads the dusk veil ? Is it that Autumn drops 

Her chilly mantle, like a funeral weed, 

Trailing and rustling on the gusty wind? 

Or some presentiment of ill to come, 

Half comprehended, springs ? Is it that grief 

Stands ever at the chair of revelling joy, 

To fill with bitter the alternate cup, — 

A medicine to temper the sweet draughts 

"Which, else, would cloy and sicken? Let it pour ! 

It is the great Physician who prescribes ! 

Does disappointment lower? or yawns the grave? 

Not even this should overcloud us so. 

At all our portals Death, impatient, stands ; 

As oft, beside the door of one who feasts, 

The watchful bailiff waits. Who may escape ? 

We but prolong the banquet at the best ; 

And happy those who unbesotted rise, 

With vision clear, and go to their account. 

O'er lands from which the driven savage flies, 
A direful spirit lingers, as to avenge 
The red man's wrongs, — to execute the curse 
He breathed upon the landscape when he fled. 
From lake and river, and low, sodden marsh, 
The blighting phantom, on miasma's wings, 
Rises, and sheds its night-brewed venom round ; 
And from its ghostly pinions widely fans- 
The alternate airs of dreadful fire and frost. 
The incautious breast, inhaling unaware, 
Now burns with heat, no winter's breath could quell; 
Now shakes with cold, no furnace-blast could reach ; 
Consuming now, as in a martyr's flame, 
To shiver soon as in a cave of ice. 
To grateful draughts now cling the fevered lips ; 
Now, pinched and purple, drain the scalding bowl : 
Such is the startling blight the autumn sees 
Sweep o'er the frontier homes. Here shuddering forth, 
Seeking the sun against his cabin wall, 
With trembly knees, the laborer, late so strong, 
Now crawls to thaw the current of his blood, 
Or shivers in the blazing chimney-side; 
And there the matron droops. Crouched o'er the hearth, 
Baldwin, disheartened, gazes in the flame, 
His sad soul aching with the internal cold. 
Meanwhile, his good wife, struggling, unsubdued, 
Holds, as with palsy-shaken arms, the child 
Which, like an ember, burns upon her breast. 
Olivia, only spared of all the house, 
Glides, like an anxious angel, 'mid the group, 
And tills her trebled duties all the day; 
While frequent sunshine of her generous face 
Gladdens the neighboring doors. And Arthur oft, 
Himself pursuing charitable paths, 
Beholds her pass, and feels his love increase. 
Nightly, by Amy's bed, her golden hair 



172 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

Sheds a soft splendor ; and her saint-like voice, 
Low as the summer music of a brook, 
And mellow soul-light beaming from her eyes, 
Half melt the ague from the sufferer's heart. 
Here Master Ethan, ever on the alert, 
Forgets himself, to go from couch to couch. 

Now, to the fevered fancy, glowing spring — 
In all the. brightness time and distance give, 
"When want and pain attend the exile's bed — 
The charmed home, the dreamy-lighted vale, 
The fireside comforts, and the wholesome air ; 
"Which once again to feel, and freely breathe, 
Were panacea for the mind and frame 
No subtle drug could match. Yet few there are, 
In the heroic group, whose hearts, subdued, 
Harbor the homesick vision $ but resist, 
With stubborn valor, as a forest-tree 
Eesists the assailing blast. Beside the stream, 
"Where the low chapel lifts its modest head, 
Of fresh-hewn timbers built, the first small mound 
Is shaped ; and Baldwin's household mourns. From there 
The light of childhood passed ; from out their door 
The shape, so morning-haloed once, was borne, — 
A little form of dull and sunless dust. 
And now the rude inscription sanctifies 
The enclosed spot, and to the future speaks : — 
" The first pale flower here consecrates the ground." 

Here Christmas comes — how different from the last ! 
The little stockings, at rude wooden jambs, 
Are hung again with undiminished faith ; 
Each chest in secret turns its contents out, 
And, ransacked oft, gives scantly to the time. 
And meagre joy had crowned the prayed-for morn, 
Had not Olivia's busy, generous hand 
Oft plied the midnight needle, and, unseen, 
"Wrought curious shapes within the flowery tray; 
"While Arthur's dexterous knife, and ready taste, 
Carved wooden forms of beautiful device. 
The week, to happy childhood dear, departs. 
Now sweeps the snow, and blows the boreal blast, 
While winter, like a crabbed regent, rules 
The young, obstreperous year. On many a night, 
The wakeful household, shuddering with the wind — 
Which searches every cranny, while the snow, 
A powder fine, attends the inveterate gust — 
Shall hear, disma} 7 ed, the direful panther's cry, 
Startlingly human, and the adventurous wolf 
Howling in fearful nearness ; and, in dreams, 
Behold the ravage wrought in bleating sheds ! 
And oft the pioneer shall start, alarmed, 
And with the rifle steal into the dark 
To guard the midnight fold. Such are the scenes, 
The hardships, and the perils which deter 
Full many a spirit in its Eastern home, 
Long wishing to be gone. The trials these 
Which only sternest natures well can meet. 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 173 

The fight is hard, the battle long sustained, 
Ere the wild forest yields, and the broad land 
With unresistance wears the peaceful yoke. 
Bid Civilization send unto her verge 
The frame of iron and the heart of oak, 
"With courage, will, and sinew to subdue : 
Let gentler natures court a gentler scene. 



BOOK THIRTY-FOURTH. 

The season comes when, from her three-months' trance, 

The Earth awakes : already her deep heart 

Begins to stir, and send its life abroad. 

On slopes, which lie adjacent to the sun, 

The snows grow thin and vanish, and the air 

Is scented with the odors of the mould ; 

For there the Spring, with warm and delicate feet, 

Fresh from her hidden caverns of perfume, 

Walks in the noon to wake the early flowers. 

Here the first bird begins the woodland's song ; 

But in yon maple grove, where genial airs 

Are earliest to blow, and last to leave, 

A louder voice is heard. The auger there 

Passes from tree to tree, and deals the wound 

Whence flows the saccharine crystal into troughs, 

Propt at the great trunks' feet ; while overhead 

The squirrel swings, and looks in wonder down. 

And now begins the pleasurable toil 

Which tends the sugar-camp. The fire is built : 

All day the smoke rolls through the antique boughs, 

All night the blaze illumes the forest-depths ! 

And there the giant caldron seethes and steams, 

Until the simple alchemy bestows 

The dusky syrup which, in cooling jars, 

Transmutes, and gives the granulated mass ; 

Or often, poured in shallow depths, contracts 

To marble smoothness, waxen to the eye, 

Hard to the tooth, delicious to the taste, 

Dearer to childhood than a Christmas toy. 

It is the spring-time. Down yon woodland path 
A lovely picture glides between the trees, 
Taking its way unto the chapel door. 
Gay garments, and soft fluttering robes of white, 
Charm the calm sunshine, while the swelling hymn 
The slow procession chants, ascends the air, 
And, unimpeded, passes into heaven. 
Behold the pastor leads the sacred way, 
Then Arthur and Olivia. Look again ! 
How beautiful the maiden's downcast eyes, 
With drooping lids that hold the happy tears ! 
A hallowed dream-light floats o'er all her form ; 
The snowy vesture rustles at her feet, 
With pleasant music, as of whispering leaves. 
■ Her golden hair, the veil but half-way hides, 
Sparkles with April's choicest violets, 
16* 



1U THE NEW PASTORAL. 

By loving fingers plucked from sunniest spots 

While yet the morn was red. Her parents next, 

Pale and disheartened with the trying year, 

Follow, with Master Ethan at their side : 

And not the memory of the long disease, 

The want of comforts, and the weakening toil 

Which their slow feet betray, can check the light 

Of pleasure springing to their languid eyes. 

And after these, upon her mother's arm, 

Comes Amy, with weak trembling steps, her cheeks 

Glowing, as fits the occasion ; but, alas ! 

It is the fiery rose that fever gives, 

Which, but a few hours hence, shall be consumed, 

And leave the hue of ashes there instead ! 

Then follows the whole glad community ; 

And presently the sanctuary door 

Receives the line, and silence reigns without. 

Here while we rest, in quiet musing held, 
And gaze upon the empty cabin-homes — 
Where one stands waiting, with warm glowing arms, 
For those we shall no more behold as two, 
But bound together in that golden bond 
Which, to the trusting heart, scarce death can break- 
Let contemplation view the future scene. 

Afar the woods before the vision fly — 
Swift as a shadow o'er the meadow grass 
Chased by the sunshine — and a realm of farms 
O'erspreads the country wide ; where many a spire 
Springs in the valleys, and on distant hills, — 
The watch-towers of the land. Here quiet herds 
Shall crop the ample pasture, and on slopes 
Doze through the summer noon. While every beast 
W r hich prowls, a terror to the frontier fold, 
Shall only live in some remembered tale, 
Told by tradition in the lighted hall, 
When the red grate usurps the wooded hearth. 
Here shall the city spread its noisy streets, 
And groaning steamers chafe along the wharves; 
While hourly o'er the plain, with streaming plume, 
Like a swift herald bringing news of peace, 
The rattling train shall fly ; and from the East — 
E'en from the Atlantic to the new-found shores 
Where far Pacific rolls, in storm or rest, 
Washing his sands of gold — the arrowy track 
Shall stretch its iron bond through all the land. 
Then these interior plains shall be as they 
Which hear the ocean roar. And Northern lakes 
Shall bear their produce, and return them wealth ; 
And Mississippi, father of the floods, 
Perform their errands to the Mexic Gulf, 
And send them back the tropic bales and fruits. 
Then shall the generations musing here 
Dream of the troublous days before their time ; 
And antiquaries point the very spot 
Where rose the first rude cabin, and the space 
Where stood the forest-chapel with its graves, 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 175 

And where the earliest marriage rites were said. 

Here, in the middle of the nation's arms, 

Perchance the mightiest inland mart shall spring. 

Here the great statesman from the ranks of toil 

May rise, with judgment clear, as strong as wise ; 

And, with a well-directed patriot blow, 

Reclinch the rivets in our union bands. 

Which tinkering knaves have striven to set ajar ! 

Here shall, perchance, the mighty bard be born, 

With voice to sweep and thrill the nation's heart, 

Like his own hand upon the corded harp. 

His songs shall be as precious girths of gold, 

Reaching through all the quarters of the land, 

Inlaid so deep within the country's weal, 

That they shall hold when heavier bands shall fail, 

Eaten by rust, or broke by traitor blows. 

Heaven speed his coming ! he is needed now ! 

He wisely spake who said, " Let me but sing 

The songs, and let who will enact the laws." 

There are whose lips are touched with living fire : 

In this great moment are they silent now? 

Lift up your foreheads, O ye glorious few, 

Exalt your laurels in the gusty air ! 

And, like brave heralds on a windy hill, 

Let your clear voices as a bugle ring I 

The wild time needs you. There are trembling hearts 

To strengthen and assure ; and there are tongues, 

Uttering they know not what, that should be drowned, 

And babbling lips that should be filled with song, 

Lest they breathe treason unaware. Who dares, 

Like that bad angel which dismembered Heaven, 

Stand forth, and, with "disunion" on his lips, 

Earn endless infamy? None are so base. 

Or if he lives — the world on land and sea 

Hides many monsters — let his villain tongue, 

In its proclaiming, struck with palsy, cleave^ 

Cleave to the roof, as with a ten-years' drought, 

And rot to ashes in the traitor's throat ! 

And may his arm which lifts the severing sword 

Be lightning-shivered ere it gives the blow! 

And on his brow be branded these black words : 

" Behold the Iscariot of his native land I" 

Then drive him forth in all his impotence — 

The wide earth's exile — an abhorred show ! 

O thou, my country, may the future see 
Thy shape majestic stand supreme as now, 
And every stain which mars thy starry robe, 
In the white sun of truth, be bleached away ! 
Hold thy grand posture with unswerving mien, 
Firm as a statue proud of its bright form, 
Whose purity would daunt the vandal hand 
In fury raised to shatter ! From thine eye 
Let the clear light of freedom still dispread 
The broad, unclouded, stationary noon ! 
Still with thy right hand on the fasces lean, 
And with the other point the living source 



1T6 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

"Whence all thy glory comes ; and where unseen, 
But still all-seeing, the great patriot souls, 
Whose swords and wisdom left us thus enriched, 
Look down and note how we fulfil our trust ! 
Still hold heneath thy fixed and sandalled foot 
The broken sceptre and the tyrant's gyves; 
And let thy stature shine above the world, 
A form of terror and of loveliness 1 6 

BOOK THIRTY-FIFTH. 

Along yon rugged road which, like a stream, 
Bursts through the shadowy forest to the west — 
"Where many a wain, like a deep-laden barge, 
Sweeps with the current following the sun — 
Behold to-day. with toilsome course reversed, 
One lonesome team is heading to the east. 
Crouched 'neath the cover, pale and sick at heart, 
Like wounded sufferers from a camp of war, 
The dwindled household of the pioneer 
Pursues its homeward way. And when the wheel 
Sinks, in the black mire stalled, 'tis Baldwin's arm. 
Now robbed of half its strength, impels it on. 
And Master Ethan on the prairie steed, 
The gift of Arthur, slowly rides beside. 
Too stern the battle for such souls as theirs. 
At best, the forest is a stubborn foe, 
Debating every inch it gives; but when 
His pale ally from sudden ambush springs, 
And deals from unseen hands the certain blow, 
They must be stout, indeed, who still resist, 
Preferring death to honorable retreat. 

When the third eve upon their laboring way 
Threatens impending darkness, and the fire • 
Lights up v their lone and ill-provided camp, 
Which the red sunset mocks along the sky, 
And the tired horses crop the scanty grass ; — 
Lo, to the wondering languor of their looks, 
A dreary figure o'er the summit toils, 
Approaching slowly ; and the shadowy shape 
Looms strangely dusk against the crimson west, 
Startling in this lone place the sickly eyes 
That watch the coming form. What may it be? 
The shape is human ; yet the clearings lie 
So separated by long miles of woods, 
To meet a lonely traveller in such place, 
And at such hour, the coolest reason deems 
The chance as rare ; and fancy half believes 
Yon nearing shade the nightly-walking ghost 
Of some poor pilgrim who, beside the road, 
Sat down, wayworn, and laid its life-load by. 
And still it nears, and still amazement springs. 
Its robes disordered and o'erspread with mire — 
Its wild hair floating — and its wilder eyes 
Fearless and staring — and the parted lips 



THE NEW PASTORAL. 177 

Breathing no audible sound — make it, indeed, 

A sight to send a shudder through the soul 

And start the brow's cold dew. But hark, a cry 

Of recognition thrills the twilight air, 

And Amy's arms are round the matron's neck. 

Oh, love, thy thorns outnumber all thy flowers ; 

And oft the frenzied eye-glance tells, as now, 

How thy sharp, cheating garland wounds the brain ! 

Thy clearest streams oft wind to gulfs of woe — 

Thy morning clouds of beauty end in storm — 

Thy sheltering myrtles call the lightning down — 

Thy violet by-ways tend to fields of briers — 

Thy dove oft proves a vulture — and, in short, 

So deeply art thou leagued with old Despair, 

Who sittest ever on a throne of tombs, 

Thy brightest path leads nearest to his realm. 

The heavy weeks toil past. June rules the sky. 
When now, in middle of the afternoon, 
The great white sun impends above the west, 
Flooding the valley with his dreamy light — 
Where farm, and village, and star-glittering spires 
Shine like the enchanted realm of peace — behold, 
On yonder brow beyond the crossing roads, 
The little wagon rises, and stands still. 
The weary horses droop ; the harness hangs, 
Along their lank sides, roughly and awry ; 
The careless rein drops, coiling, to the ground ; 
The dusty wain is loose and out of joint ; 
The cover soiled and warped. A dreary sight I 
And not less woful, in their wayworn garbs, 
The melancholy group whose tearful eyes 
Take in the landscape dearest to their hearts. 
And while they gaze, their joy is half rebuked 
With wonder why they left so fair a spot. 
Yonder, within its little knot of trees, 
The sacred homestead smiles ; and, there, the fields 
Which called them to the harvest; but, alas, 
The stranger in their native doorway stands, 
His scythes along yon clover-pasture sweep, 
And all the acres hold his waving crops. 
The unknown mower wipes his reeking blade, 
And, whistling, whets its sun-reflecting side; 
The pleasant odor steals along the breeze, 
Sweet as from out the hay-fields of the past ; 
The cow-boy, singing on the distant slope, 
Turns home the tinkling herd. There springs the smoke 
From long-remembered hearths. Some 
Awakes the ringing anvil ; and from far, 
The giant hammer of the stream-worked forge 
Throbs through the air its old familiar beat. 
There gleams the chapel on its Sabbath-hill, 
Where now some foreign pastor wakes the desk ; 
And in the lowland, by the winding stream, 
Flashes the mill-wheel ; but who tends the mill? 
Here, by the highway, the elm-shaded school 
Lulls the soft air with murmurs ; but within 



178 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

What faithful master fills the sovereign chair? 
Such are the sights and such the thoughts that rise, 
Till each heart throbs with mingled joy and pain. 
Their feet, forgetful of long travel past, 
Eeceive new impulse, and descend the road, 
Taking fresh vigor ; as if e'en the dust, 
"Which held their footprints in their younger years, 
Gave back the lightness of those brighter days. 

So great a draft the westward-going line 
Made on the happy vale, to fill the gap, 
From various sides, came in the stranger crowd, 
Usurping fields and hearths. The homeward few 
Gaze wistfully to meet one well-known face. 
As yet but unfamiliar, curious looks 
Greet their return, until their little wain 
Drags its slow course toward the wayside inn, 
The centre of the vale ; when to their side, 
With wondering eyes and questions on his lips, 
One old-time friend with many welcoming words 
Assails the group, and guides it to his gate. 
And there his good wife, with astonished tears, 
Receives the wayworn pilgrims ; while, outside, 
The rattling bars admit the ungeared team. 



BOOK THIRTY-SIXTH. 

The red sun sinks, and brings the noiseless eve; 
Within the orchard, ere he drops to rest, 
The robin pours his vesper hymn — his voice 
Closes the chorus of the day ; while now, 
Within the shadowy grove, the whippoorwill 
Takes up the song, and leads the nightly choir. 

Through yonder lane one tall, frail figure moves — 
Moves like a phantom, sighing where he goes — 
While in the east the white moon, as in pity, 
W T atches his lingering steps. These are the fields 
His once strong arm had cleared. In this same path — 
Since when full half a century has flown — 
He led his fair bride home. And these tall trees, 
Whose high leaves whisper in the upper air, 
He bore as saplings in his arms, and set 
The roots, now spread so broad and deep. And here 
His happy children played. But now, alas, 
His feet intrude upon another's grounds ; 
And through yon garden, where the long-gone past 
Oft heard his household singing "mid the flowers, 
The iron highway unrelenting cleaves — 
Cleaves like an arrow through a heart forlorn — 
Where soon the engine, with discordant wheels, 
Shall scream and thunder by. He turns in pain, 
And strides the new-mown fields — his fields no more — 
And gains the little chapel. Its calm shape, 
Unchanged, melts o'er his spirit like the smile 
Of one whose tongue is ever tuned to peace ; 
And down the little garden of low tombs 



THE NdW PASTORAL. 179 

He walks once more among his cherished friends, 

Brushing the dewy roses where they sleep. 

Here feels at home — here breathes a freer air — 

And in his deep heart hears the welcome given 

"Which strengthens and consoles. Long by one grave 

He leans with tranquil tears, and stands as one 

"Who waits beside a happy palace gate, 

Hearing his comrade's gliding feet within, 

And hearkens for the warder's opening key. 

The warder lingers, but the feast will last ; 

And they who come to-morrow, and to-morrow, 

Shall find the eternal banquet but begun. 

"With firmer steps the old man turns away — 

Crosses the dewy pasture — threads the grove — 

Till, at the woodland's edge, a sudden "hand 

Falls on his arm, and on his ear a voice 

Familiar of the past : " This way, good friend, 

For here is need of you !" And to her door 

The dame of Oakland guides the willing feet. 

" Step lightly and speak low !" and, murmuring thus, 

She leads across the time-worn sill. Her hand, 

Palsied and shaking like a winter branch, 

Points to the woful shape upon her couch. 

" Behold, for thou art worthy to behold, 

The frail form wrecked upon the reefs of woe!" 

Whereat the other, sighing deeply, speaks: 

" Good dame, 'tis well, the healing arts are yours, 

You know what plants may medicine her ills." 

To which the crone : — " I know that sweet herb well ; 

Already she hath drained the bowl, and sleeps* 

Believe me, friend, I am not wont to weep — 

I thought my springs of pity all were dry — 

And yet to-night mine eyes have known strange tears ! 

Speak low, she sleeps ! Poor fool, I warned her oft ! 

Oh, double folly, thus to wander back, 

To seek the thing which was not worth the finding ! 

But piteous Heaven, oft kinder than it seems, 

Hath moved the wretch bej^ond her pure soul's reach. 

A few days past, in some wild tavern brawl, 

And 'mong companions fit, he made a boast — 

The boast that only fools and liars make — 

When scarce the words had passed his scoundrel lips, 

One nobler than the rest, with sudden hand, 

Dealt the red stroke that saved a maiden's honor ! 

The son proved worthy the bad-guiding sire, 

Whom, bloated like his swine, beside his still, 

Death slaughtered at a blow ! — a hideous sight ! 

" Poor child, she sleeps ! 'Tis but a half-hour past 
The hot delirium raged. A little while 
She lay, and chicled, with most piteous word, 
The tardy lover ; and, with broken sobs, 
Told him the hardships of the lonely woods : 
But even there, she said, were lovely spots, 
And she had found them all — the rock, the glen, 
And the deep sunless forest — charmed scenes, 
Inviting all to love. Then, with a start, 



180 THE NEW PASTORAL. 

And ghostly smile, like moonshine on her face, 
She cried, ' Oh, mother, cease to chide ! he comes ! 
1 knew that he would come.' And darkly, then, 
A sudden shadow passed across her hrow ; 
And presently she whispered, ' "Why so pale? 
Why stands he there with such despairing eyes ? 
There's blood upon his forehead ! there's a wound 
Which only I should bind ! Come, let me twine 
This kerchief there ! Oh, look not thus ! smile once, 
And I forgive !' Whereat she swooned, and slept 
As she sleeps now !" " You mean the sleep of death !" 
The old man cries, and starts unto the couch. 
" What other sleep could soothe ?" replies the dame : 
" The slumber which we know is poor at best, 
And full of nightmares ! — but her dreams are past !" 
And now the veteran takes the clay-cold hand, 
Smooths back the troubled tresses from her brow, 
And sighs, " 'Tis well," and by the bedside prays. 
When through the vale the melancholy news 
Of their return is spread, the rural hearts — 
For simple hearts lie openest to the touch — 
Are waked to pity ; and the gathered group, 
The leaders of the place, consult, devise, 
And settle the benevolent plan. And now, 
A little home, with moderate acres round, 
Receives the worthy farmer and his plough, 
Where soon his household smiles with health renewed. 
The frail old Master, whoso undimmed repute 
Through many years had widened miles abroad, 
Accepts the well-urged oifer ; and once more, 
Content among the rosy girls and boys, 
Resumes his morning and his evening walk. 
His locks grow thinner, and his steps less firm, 
But cheerily still he rules his small domain ; 
And e'en less frequent sounds his chiding voice, 
While oft the unnoted fault goes by, and love 
Outrules the rusted rod. Behold, abroad 
In summer-noon recess, what happier sight ! 
The glowing children with their laughter loud 
Startle the scented air ; and games begin, 
Only to end what time the bell recalls. 
How the glad foliage rustles overhead, 
As if theangels hovered listening there, 
Watching the innocent pastimes, likest that 
In purity which cheers celestial groves ! 
The hour goes by, and still the urchins play ; — 
Another hour, and still another, flies, 
Until they deem a holiday is given. 
And peering oft where, leaning on his desk, 
The Master holds his wonted rest, they turn 
And look with wonder in each other's eyes, 
And then renew their games ! Dear hearts, play on ; 
Your laughter cannot break his slumber now ! 
His hand of dust shall no more wake the bell ; 
A greater Ruler hath dismissed the school ; 
The weary Master takes recess in heaven ! 




BRUSHWOOD. 



There came the maid in her gloirin/j dress, 
The wild-eyed witch <>f the wilderness!" 



BRUSHWOOD. 



181 



The circling theme is clasped where it began ; 
But, lingering still within this happy vale, 
The bard reluctant stands. The pipe, attuned 
To melancholy, yet prolongs the sound, 
Like waves that murmur when the breeze is done. 
Ye who have followed in the long-drawn path, 
And borne with patient steps your pilgrim staffs, 
Nor dropt aside, wayworn,— forgive the guide, 
If oft, enamored of 'the tune he played, 
He vaguely wandered — like an April brook, 
Blind and oblivious, on its singing way- 
Leading through tedious woods and briery fields ; 
And, like brave travellers from a various tour, 
Forget the toil— the dull, inclement days — 
Recalling only landscapes bright with sun. 



POEMS IN ITALY. 



BRUSHWOOD. 

On~ a weary slope of Apennine, 

At sober dusk of day's decline, 

Out of the solemn solitude 

Of Vallombrosa's antique wood, 

A withered woman, tanned and bent, 

Bearing her bundled brushwood went, 

Poising it on her palsied head, 

As if in penance for prayers unsaid. 

Her dull cheeks channelled were with 

tears 
Shed in the storms of eighty years ; 
Her wild hair fell in gusty flow, 
White as the foamy brook below ; 
Still toiled she with her load alone, 

With feeble feet but steadfast will, 
To gain her little home, that shone 

Like a dreary lantern on the hill. 

The mountain child, no toil could 

tame, 
With lighter load beside her came, 
Spake kindly, but its accents fond 
Were lost, — soon lost on the heights 

beyond. 
There came the maid in her glowing 

dress, 
The wild-eyed witch of the wilderness, 
Her brush-load shadowing her face, 
Her upright figure full of grace, 



10 



Like those tall pines whose only 
boughs 

Are gathered round their dusky 
brows : — 

Singing, she waved her hand, " Good- 
night," 

And round the mountain passed from 
sight. 

There climbed the laborers from their 

toil, 
Brown as their own Italian soil; 
Like Satyrs, some in goatskin suits, — 
Some bearing home the scanty fruits 
Of harvest work, — the swinging flasks 
Of oil or wine, or little casks, 
Under which the dull mule went 
Cheered with its bell, and the echoes 

sent 
From others on the higher height, 
Saying to the vale, " Good-night," — 
"Good-night;" — and still the with- 
ered dame 



Here, astride of his braying beast, 
A brown monk came, and then a 

priest ; 
Each telling to the shadowy air, 
Perchance, their "Ave Maria " prayer; 
For the sky was full of vesper showers, 
Shook from the many convent towers, 



182 



POEMS IN ITALY. 



Which fell into the woman's brain 
Like dew upon an arid plain. 
These pious men beside her rode, — 
She crossed herself beneath her load, 
As best she could, — and so " Good- 
night," 
And they rode upward out of sight. 

How far, how very far it seemed, 
To where that starry taper gleamed, 
Placed by her grandchild on the sill 
Of the cottage window on the hill! 
Many a parent heart before, 
Laden till it could bear no more, 
Has seen a heavenward light that 

smiled. 
And knew it placed there by a child, — 
A long-gone child, whose anxious face 
Gazed toward them down the deeps 

of space, 
Longing for the loved to come 
To the quiet of that home. 

Steeper and rougher grew the road, 
Harder and heavier grew the load ; 
Her heart beat like a weight of stone 
Against her breast. A sigh and 

moan 
Mingled with prayer escaped her lips 
Of sorrow, o'er sorrowing night's 

eclipse. 
" Of all who pass me by," she said, 
u There is never one to lend me aid ; 
Could I but gain yon wayside 

shrine, 
There would I rest this load of mine, 
And tell my sacred rosary through, 
And try what patient pra} T er would 

do." 

Again she heard the toiling tread 
Of one who climbed that way, — and 

said, 
" I will be bold, though I should see 
A monk or priest, or it should be 
The awful abbot, at whose nod 
The frighted people toil and plod : 
I'll ask his aid to yonder place, 
Where I may breathe a little space, 
And so regain my home." He came, 
And, halting by the ancient dame, 
Heard her brief story and request, 
Which moved the pity in his breast; 
And so he straightway took her load, 
Toiling beside her up the road, 
Until, with heart that overflowed, 



She begged him lay her bundled 

sticks 
Close at the feet of the crucifix. 

So down he set her brushwood freight 
Against the wayside * cross, and 

straight 
She bowed her palsied head to greet 
And kiss the sculptured Saviour's 

feet ; 
And then and there she told her grief, 
In broken sentences and brief. 
And now the memory o'er her came 
Of days blown out, like a taper flame, 
Never to be relighted, when, 
From many a summer hill and glen, 
She culled the loveliest blooms to'shine 
About the feet of this same shrine ; 
But now, where once her flowers were 

gay, 
Naught but the barren brushwood 

lay ! 
She wept a little at the thought, 
And prayers and tears a quiet brought, 
Until anon, relieved of pain, 
She rose to take her load again. 
But lo ! the bundle of dead wood 
Had burst to blossom, and now stood 
Dawning upon her marvelling sight, 
Filling the air with odorous light 1 

Then spake her traveller- friend : 

" Dear Soul, 
Thy perfect faith hath made thee 

whole ! 
I am the Burthen-Bearer, — I 
Will never pass the o'erladen hy. 
My feet are on the mountain steep ; 
They wind through valleys dark and 

deep ; 
They print the hot dust of the plain, 
And walk the billows of the main. 
Wherever is a load to bear, 
My willing shoulder still is there ! 
Thy toil is done !" He took her hand, 
And led her through a May-time land; 
Where round her pathway seemed to 

wave 
Each votive flower she ever gave 
To make her favorite altar bright, 
As if the angels, at their blight, 
Had borne them to the fields of blue, 
Where, planted 'mid eternal dew, 
They bloom, as witnesses arrayed 
Of one on earth who toiled and 

prayed. 




BRUSHWOOD. 

" There climbed the laborers from their foil, 
Brown as their own Italian soil. 1 ' 



THE ART PILGRIM. 



183 



TO H. W. L. 

Oh thou, the laureate of our Western 

realms, 
Singing at will beneath your Cam- 
bridge elms, 
Charming that sacred mansion where 

the grand 
Paternal Cineinnatus of our land 
Dwells, a majestic shadow — more than 

king; 
Who, staidly smiling, hearkens while 

you sing. 
Wouldst thou but build in Eome, we 

should behold 
O'er Nero's ruins rise the enduring 

house of gold. 

But I, a Troubadour born out of time, 
From shrine to shrine, pour out my 

idle rhyme, 
Impelled still onward with a love in- 
tense, 
Singing for love (the only recom- 
pense) 
Of one sweet lady, and perchance to be 
But spurned at last by scornful Poesy. 



THE AET PILGRIM. 

Rome holds to-day in her maternal 

trust 
An artist army gone to noteless dust, 
The tribute of all nations, and they lie, 
Their campaign o'er, beneath their 

favorite sky, 
A tranquil brotherhood. How calmly 

well 
They sleep at last in Csesar's citadel — 
As it were sweet to fill an urn in this 
Earth's mausoleum — Fame's necrop- 

ol is ! 
Only a few brave generals of the field 
Have left a name which history will 

not yield ; 
But, emulating these, behold to-day 
What new recruits still throng the 

dubious way, 
Toiling with hope, as if beneath their 

tread 
Slept not the host of disappointed dead. 
And now another joins the aspiring 

line ; 
A pilgrim knight, and Rome his 

Palestine. 



Rome was his dream, since in his 

boyish path 
A Fate, or Fury, smiling, or in 

wrath, 
Dropt the light pencil of the limner's 

art, 
Which seen he seized, and loved with 

all his heart. 

Ah me, in sooth, much patient love 

it needs 
To toil and starve, where only one 

succeeds 
Out of the thousand! Yet, he 

deemed it grand 
Even to fail 'mid that devoted 

band ; 
To labor toward the ever-flying mart, 
Led by the banners of triumphal 

Art; 
Feeling the sweet winds from her. 

pennons flow 
Athwart the pallid cheek and fevered 

brow ; 
To hear the music, and the steady 

beat 
Of his, and his advancing comrades' 

feet. 
Though hard the fare, and difficult 

the load, 
Yet Beauty smiled on either side the 

road, 
Till it seemed good, in such a land of 

bloom, 
To be at rest beneath a nameless tomb. 

Approaching Rome, he climbed the 

Apennines, 
Which round the horizon rolled their 

billowy lines, 
Where sailed his heart of hope, 

while blood as fleet 
As Mercury's pinions, winged his 

tireless feet. 
Sweeter than breath of Fame, the 

perfumed air 
Breathed on his lip, and cooled his 

sunny hair. 
The scene serene ; the sky a liquid 

blue, 
Where his wild fancy with the falcon 

flew. 
The mountain goatherd trolled his 

shepherd rhyme, 
The tinkling bells made chorus with 

their chime j 



184 POEMS IN ITALY. 


Thrilled with the lark, the arching 


And intermingling arms, and songs 


azure rang, 


insane, 


And full of rosy girls the vineyards 


Whirl till the green earth whirls with 


laughed arid sang. 


them again. 




Thrice round the ring they wheel 


And this was Italy — the glorious goal 


their dizzy flight, 


Of many a long-gone vision of his 


Then past the ruin, laughing, sweep 


soul. 


from sight. 


Oh, happy youth — he of the golden 




hair ; 


Though swift they came, and though 


His present bright, his morrow prom- 


as swift they sped, 


ised fair. 


The painter caught the vision ere it 


How many a spirit worthy of such 


fled; 


bliss, 


But, striving still to fix the flying 


For such an hour, in such a scene 


grace 


as this, 


Of her who led the momentary chase, 


Would barter half its future! 


He toiled, perplexed, till smothered 


Through his brain 


laughter told 


Young Jasper felt the pleasure throb 


He was no more alone ; and there, 


like pain, 


behold ! 


Throb like the wings of some glad 


Close at his side the mirthful maiden 


bird which flies, 


stood, 


Aching from slavery, to his native 


Poised in the action of her wildest 


skies. 


mood, 




Still as a statue, with the self-same 


To sketch the beauty of a wayside 


air 


scene, 


O'er which his pencil wrought him 


He turned apart 'twixt rocks and 


such despair ; 


laurels green, 


The backward shoulders, tambourine 


And under chestnut boughs, until he 


aloft; 


found 


The dark eye full of laughter, large 


A crumbling crag, with toppling tur- 


and soft ; 


rets crowned. 


The black waves rippling through 


Fast flies the pencil when the heart 


the caught-up curls ; 


directs ; 


The crimson lips just parting on the 


"When feeling, quicker than the sight, 


pearls ; 


detects 


The full breasts heaving in their 


The line of loveliness. But, hark, 


snowy wards, 


the leaves 


As in rebellion 'gainst the crimson 


Are stirred with music, and his eye 


cords ; 


perceives, 


Her height perfection ; rounded not 


In the deep umber of the neighbor- 


too much, 


ing glade, 


A shape, where Nature could not add 


Figures, whose fiery colors in the 


a touch ; 


shade 


In all, a form to poets seldom shown, 


Burn like the red light of the setting 


For which the painters sigh, and 


sun ! 


sculptors seek in stone. 


One blows upon a rustic pipe ; and one, 




Who glows the centre of the flaming 


Breathless with wonder, gazed the 


scene, 


startled youth, 


Leads their gay footsteps with her 


Before his senses could explain the 


tambourine ; 


truth, 


Still dancing as she plays, her fol- 


Then madly tore the picture he had 


lowers, 


wrought, 


With pleasure more than emulating 


And flung the fragments wide, as 


hers, 


worse than naught, 



THE ART PILGRIM. 185 


And joined the laughter of the wild- 


Half buried in the grass. But when 


eyed maid, 


came in 


"Who led him prisoner where her 


The maiden with the captive, all the 


comrades strayed. 


din 




Of song and story was no longer heard ; 


It was a level space, which once had 


They ceased, like feathered singers 


been 


when a bird 


The court-yard of a castle, where was 


Of foreign plumage fills their eyes 


seen 


with doubt. 


A fountain, choked as is a tomb with 


The sudden silence, like their leader's 


dust; 


shout, 


The songless triton thick with moss 


Brought all the sleepers to their feet, 


and rust ; 


and they 


Dripping green vines where once the 


Waited the word to charge, or stand 


waters flowed ; 


at bay. 


Where ruined arch and broken 




column showed 


"Behold!" the maiden cried, and 


"What marble splendor and what 


clapt her hands ; 


knightly power 


"See my first captive; how demure 


Reigned on this mountain in the 


he stands, 


feudal hour. 


And offering no resistance. All his 

gold 
Is mine if I demand it ! And I hold 


There led the maiden ; and the travel- 


ler saw 


His life within my palm." Then 


Groups of wild men, who, disregard- 


Pietro cried 


ing law, 


(Pietro, who held her his affianced 


Dwell in such covert places, making 


bride, 


bold 


And he the captain, — comeliest of 


"With others' goods, as doubtless did 


the crew), 


of old 


" Take you the gold, it is your rightful 


The early masters of these castled 


due, 


heights, 


But let his life remain as so much 


When robbers were not thieves, but 


weight 


gallant knights ; 


Of dull red copper, a most cumbrous 


And Europe still permits the old dis- 


freight 


grace — 


To barques which fly the chasing 


The boldest robber holding highest 


sloops of State. 


place. 


Make fast your prize, fair pirate, and 


As witness, — nay, I dare not thrust 


then lift 


it home, 


The precious bales aboard, and let 


I hear the usurper's guard patrolling 


him drift." 


Bome. 






Then uprose one, who looked as she 


They leaned, or sat, or lay, in open 


might be 


air, 


A mountain Borgia, full of majesty ; 


Most lazily making pictures un- 


Her black hair touched with gray, 


aware — 


her cheeks with brown — 


The true Italian fashion. Here a troop 


The tan of forty summers ; her swift 


Drained the red flask, and sang ; 


frown 


and there a group 


Was like a summer cloud, and lit 


Passed the wild story — many a cu- 


With fearful lightnings ; yet, when 


rious tale, 


she deemed fit, 


Worthy Boccaccio. Some there were 


The smile could melt across those 


lay prone 


features wild 


And dead in sleep, like statues over- 


With all the sweetness of a guileless 


thrown, 


child. 


16* 



186 



POEMS IN ITALY. 



11 Nay, Pietro, nay ! Though he, 

whose place you hold 
As head of this our band, was bad 

and bold ; 
My master, yes, and thine ; he was 

too brave 
To bid the hand he loved do what the 

knave, 
The cut-throat at his side could do as 

well ! 
The child is innocent, and so shall 

dwell, 
While I remain her mother and her 

guard." 
" Come, come, good mistress ; pray 

you, not so hard !" 
Gay Pietro answered. '•' It were sport 

to see 
The young hawk pluck the heron ! 

Would not he 
Much rather feel those dimpled fingers 

lurk 
About his breast, than hands for 

rougher work. 
But, be it as you will. There, Jocco, you 
Try what your art on our new friend 

can do." 

The robber slave strode forward, then 

recoiled ; 
Though not accustomed to be checked 

or foiled, 
Nor easily daunted ; but the maiden's 

look 
Had something in it which he dared 

not brook. 
Then seized she the spadino from her 

hair, 
Which fell a storm of tresses, and the 

glare 
Of the bright weapon glittering in 

the sun 
Plashed like her eye of anger. Every 

one 
Cried, "Brava! brava!" even, as at 

play, 
Clapping their loud applause, till, far 

away 
Among the rocks, the aerial robber 

bands 
Of echoes answered back with merry 

tongues and hands. 
Thrice round the throng she sped her 

fiery glance, 
Which glittered like a bright, defiant 

lance, 



And held her threatening posture till 

she saw 
They all approved, and owned her 

will was law. 
Then, confidently, in the stranger's 

hand 
She placed her own, and said, " Let 

all the band 
Show hospitality, and none offend 
In word, or look, or deed, my artist 

friend ! 
Have you not heard the Eoman paint- 
ers tell 
(You, who are models, know the story 

well) 
How wild Salvator, in a mountain 

cave, 
Lived with the robbers ; how they 

freely gave 
Their bread and wine, and shelter ; 

and that he 
Conceived there those great pictures 

which you see 
On palace walls, and which the 

princes hold 
More precious than thick tablets of 

pure gold ? 
So was it once ; and let it now be 

shown 
That we can have a Rosa of our own." 



THE CAMPAGNA. 

Lo, the Campagna I How those star- 
tling words 

Sweep like swift fingers o'er en- 
chanted cords, 

Thrilling the heart with infinite de- 
light ! 

Lo, the Campagna ! The incredulous 
sight, 

Sailing from this, the eagle's wild 
domain, 

Cleaves the far blue of the historic 
plain, 

Painting with pleasure. How, on 
this high bar, 

The soul dilates, and trembles like a 
star 

New-born. And, lo I as in a sea of rest, 

Kome lies, a palmy island of the blest, 

Glowing with glory. Lo ! the as- 
piring dome, 

The smaller sky that over arches 
Rome, — 



Rome, and the minds of millions, — 
till it grows 

Greater than that it emulates, and 
shows 

How Power still sways, with her Ti- 
tanic will, 

The ancestral sceptre on her sevenfold 
hill! 

Here, where I stand, the weary pil- 
grim line 

Drops on its knees before the long- 
sought shrine. 

The wayworn mother, with her rap- 
ture wild, 

Holds toward the Dome the wide- 
eyed, wondering child. 

Here youths and maidens kneel, with 
marvellous stare, 

With pleasure taking precedence of 
prayer ; 

Drinking the sight, of which, in some 
far year, 

The curious grandchild at their side 
shall hear. 

Here manhood, from some foreign 
harvest-field, 

Kneels, as beside his mother's feet he 
kneeled ; 

And age, with white locks, bowing 
to the dust, 

Salutes the goal — the temple of his 
trust — 

His old arms crossed upon his tranquil 
breast, 

"Where all the passions lie in pious 
rest ; 

The lamb and lion — and the child's 
control — 

The reign of Peace. Millennium of 
the soul ! 

How beautiful! Old pilgrim, here 
by thee 

The heretic within me bows the knee. 



PvOME ENTERED. 

The loud vettura rings along the way, 
White as the road with dust. The 

purple day, 
O'er Monte Mario, dies from off the 

dome, 
And, lol the first star leads us into 

Rome. 



ROME ENTERED. 
Oh 



187 



glorious city ! Through the 
deepening shade 
A thousand heroes, like the gods 

arrayed, 
And bards, with laurel rustling on 

their hair, 
Walk proudly, and speak grandly, 
till the air 

Is full of solemn majesty, and 
night 

Is half-way robbed by temples marble- 
white. 

Yon tramping steeds, and yonder glit- 
tering wheel — 

Chariot a Cassar — while the common- 
weal 

Greets him with pseans, and we 
proudly march 

On toward the Forum. The tri- 
umphal arch, 

Burning with banners, and the mur- 
muring street, 

Deep-strewn with roses, till the air is 
sweet 

With floating odors. How the heralds 
blow 

Their wild delirious trumpets, notes 
that go 

Like swift flames soaring with the 
fiery tune, 

Bursting from clarions blazing in the 
noon ! 

Whence come we ? from what con- 
quest? with what spoil? 

Whence are these captives, bleeding 
as they toil 

Under our load of trophies ? Whips, 
and groans, 

And blood, that shames the rose- 
leaves on the stones 

For depth of crimson 1 And the dew 
of tears 

Blistering the noonday dust! O'er- 
come with years, 

And toil, and grief, there drops the 
wayworn slave 

Under the horses , and the conquer- 
ing wave, 

Above his carcass, pours its glorious 
flood 

Down through the Forum in a path 
of blood, 

Roaring with triumph ! Do I wake, 
or sleep ? 

Thank Heaven, 'twas but a dream : a 
ruined heap 



188 



POEMS IN ITALY. 



The house of Csesar and of Nero lies ! 
And o'er the golden wall the owlet 
nightly cries. 



THE SCALINNATTI. 

In Rome there is a glorious flight of 
stone, 

Great steps, as leading to a giant's 
throne, 

Or to a temple of Titanic gods. 

This marvellous height, up which the 
pilgrim plods, 

Breathless half-way, seems like a stair- 
way tracked 

By myriad feet of some wild cataract ; 

Like those where Nilus, with his flag 
of spray, 

Leads his wild Abyssinian floods away. 

Below this giant stairway, in the 

square, 
There springs a cooling murmur in 

the air ; 
The liquid music of a tinkling rill ; 
A stolen naiad from the Sabine hill, 
Still singing, in captivity, the lay 
Learned on her native mountains far 

away. 
In middle of this fount a marble barge 
Sits, overflowing with its crystal 

charge ; 
Its light mast liquid silver in the sun ; 
Its viewless rowers singing every one, 
Until — so feigns the fancy— warmly 

dark, 
Great Egypt sails in the fantastic 

barque, 
Melting in languors of her own heart's 

heat, 
A tame, bright leopard cushioning her 

feet! 
But here, with swelling heart, and 

lordly mien, 
The stately swan of Avon swims 

between.* 

Crowning the flight, a porphyry col- 
umn stands 

Dark as the sphinx above the desert 
sands ; 

* " The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, 
Burned on the water," etc. 

Antony and Cleopatra. 



Solemn as prophecy it points the sky, 
Propounding its dim riddle to the eye ; 
And it has seen, with look as calm 

as Fate's, 
On Nile and Tiber, the imperial States 
Rise nobly, and fall basely ; and there 

still 
"Waits for new wonders, silent on yon 

hill. 

II. 
THE SCALINNATTI. 

In Borne there is a glorious flight of 

stone, 
Terrace o'er terrace rising, like that 

shown 
To dreaming Jacob, climbing, till on 

high 
The last broad platform nobly gains 

the sky. 
On this great stairway what are these 

I see, 
Ascending and descending? They 

should be 
Angels with spotless mantles and 

white wings. 
But look again : those sad, misshapen 

things, 
They scarce seem human! Where 

they crawl and lay 
Their tattered misery in the stranger's 

way, 
Filling the air with simulated sighs, 
Weeping for bread with unsuflused 

eyes,. 
Would they did weep, indeed ! for, 

stung to tears, 
Then were there hope where now no 

hope appears. 
But such the melting influence of the 

place, 
That one there was — most abject of 

his race ; 
A whining trunk — deprived of every 

gift 
Save his misfortune ; but, with this, 

did lift 
Himself to such a height of wealth 

and power, 
That many a Roman noble, at this 

hour, 
Envies his hoard, and many a sinking 

name 
The beggar's usurous gold still keeps 

from shame. 



A VISION IN ITALY. 



189 



Here the brown Sabines, in their gay 

attires, 
Whose eyes still kindle with ancestral 

fires, 
Bring down their mountain graces to 

the mart, 
And wait for bread on the demands 

of Art. 
There Belisarius, with his patriarch 

hair, 
Sits blind and hungry. A Lucretia 

there 
Winds her light distaff. Young 

Endymion here 
Sleeps, as in Latmos. Yonder, draw- 
ing near, 
The original of many a picture moves, 
And many a statue which the world 

approves. 
There sits the mother, with her soft 

brown eyes 
Bent o'er the face which on her bosom 

lies — 
Enough of mingled wonder, pride, 

and trust, 
To call the hand of Raphael from the 

dust. 



THE OLD STUDIO. 

'Twixt these four walls,, so dusk and 

soiled by Time, 
Where you, poor student, with your 

dreams sublime, 
Build a proud future — many a naming 

brow 
Hath reared the structure you are 

rearing now, 
Then saw it, under Time's relentless 

- hand, 
Crumbling to nothing, like a dome 

of sand, 
And the heart with it. Many a canvas 

here, 
Painted with life-blood, and the 

modest tear ; 
Where hope still shed its wild mis- 
guiding light : 
Or where ambition, in his fancied 

might, 
Rivalled the masters, now midst dusty 

lots 
Of kindred lumber in the Ghetto 

rots, 



Gathering blackness, till the stranger 
calls, 

And, for a pittance, decks his far-off 
walls 

With "Raphaels," "Claudes," and 
other rubbish lies, 

While the poor artist in his garret dies. 

In yon low cell, that reeks with an- 
cient damp, 

The student sculptor burns his nightly 
lamp ; 

The summer day too short to tire his 
heart. 

Art is his toil ; his pastime still is art. 

There hews his statue ; suffering as he 
carves, 

And at the feet of his first effort 
starves. 

Here toiled a courage hunger could 
not tame, 

Till crushed ambition sapped the fail- 
ing frame. 

Here the young soul for truth and 
beauty sighed, 

Till Envy smote him, and the victim 
died. 

Here many an aspiration as divine 
As yours has perished — as may thine 

and mine ; 
And we may see the names we write 

to-day 
So proudly, brushed, as idle dust, 

away. 
Well, let them pass ; 'twere nobler 

thus to fall, 
Striving, than never to have striven 

at all. 
Brave heart, toil on ; and grandly 

struggle still, 
With steady purpose, and unwavering 

will ; 
There is reward, though failure crowns 

your lot, 
A triumph Time and Envy baffle not ; 
The noble suffering, and the long en- 
deavor, 
Shall bring the soul its recompense 

forever. 

A VISION IN ITALY. 

The clouds were built of roses ; purple 

showers 
Of light, like ashes of those flaming 

flowers, 



190 



POEMS IN ITALY. 



O'er veiled the mountains ; and the 

vesper bells, 
Like hooded hermits lodged in turret 

cells, 
Chanted their " Aves." All the mel- 
low air 
Throbbed with the trembling pulse of 

praise and prayer — 
The thrill of worship — till the deep 

sky, even, 
A bell of silver in a greater heaven, 
Vibrating to the countless tongues 

abroad, 
Poured the melodious anthem up to 

God. 

To watch the glories of the dying 

light, 
A pilgrim mounted to a rocky height 
That overlooked the mountain's misty 

sea; 
Alone he sat in silent revery, 
Endeavoring to make his heart believe 
That all the charms of the delicious 

eve, 
The sounds, the sunset, and the 

charmed air, 
"Were Italy, and he was really there. 

He looked, and dreamed, until his 
conjuring gaze 

Saw marvellous shadows issuing 
through the haze. 

Like clouds, they passed majestically 
slow ; 

Silent as shadows of those clouds 
below ; 

Stately as ships that skirt the hori- 
zon's bar, 

Bearing their freight of mystery afar. 

All the great dead of Italy went by, 
Or rather say, the great, who cannot 

die ; 
Poets and painters, sculptors, and the 

rest, 
Who wore the fire of glory in their 

breast ; 
Burning, until, consumed with their 

own fame, 
They passed to Death, the chief high- 
priest of Fame, 
And were thenceforth immortal. 

Every brow 
Wore the green chaplet won in toil 

below, 



And wore it grandly, spite the thorns 

beneath, 
The goring thorns, the skeleton of 

Fame's wreath, 
Which first about the bleeding brow 

she weaves, 
The better to support the after-leaves. 
And where the laurel loftiest brushed 

the stars, 
He knew its fulness hid the deepest 

scars. 
Each bent on him, in passing, their 

deep eyes, 
As if they felt that pain which never 

dies ; 
The memory of mortal hopes and 

fears, 
And loves unquenched by their im- 
mortal tears. 

Anon, upon the dusky skj T appeared 

A crowned, colossal woman! which 
the weird 

Immortals seeing, in a curving line 

They rose, and rose above the Apen- 
nine, 

Until the tallest laurels caught a 
ray 

Of glorv from the sunken flame of 
day, 

And thus they circled her. But who 
was she ? 

Shade of what giantess, thus doomed 
to be 

A watcher, with great sorrows over- 
borne, 

While her poor dust below lay tomb- 
less and forlorn ! 

In gloomy quiet sat she, and her 

throne 
Seemed but a ruin rankly overgrown ; 
Of ruins only was her queenly seat, 
And fallen columns lay about her feet, 
Enough to corridor the starry heaven ; 
While rising round her, through the 

golden even, 
Shone grandly many a spectral arch 

and dome, 
Shattered, as they had stood a siege at 

Kome. 

An empty scabbard in her right hand 

lay, 
The other propt her cheek ; her hair, 

half gray, 



A VISION IN ITALY. 



191 



Fell subject to the wind ; her droop- 
ing head 
Ached with three crowns, and all her 

forehead bled ; 
Her once bright mantle, trampled in 

the dust, 
Lay tattered, while a foreign robe 

was thrust 
About her rudely, held as by a blast, 
Whereon her eyes at times indignant 

cast 
Their direful glances, and her fingers, 

wild, 
Plucked at the garment like a fretful 

child. 

There, round the sorrowing shadow, 

stood the line 
Of knightly phantoms, and their eyes 

divine 
Wept when she wept, and what she 

bade to do 
Their ghostly hands attempted. Well 

she knew 
They were her chiefest champions, 

and her trust, 
The guard which kept her memory 

from the dust. 

What sound was that ? A ringing, 
martial note 

Jarred the near hills and streamed 
through lands remote ; 

And he who blew stood on a rocky 
crest, 

A battlement of nature, and the nest 

Where Freedom rears her tyrant- 
scorning young : 

When o'er the heights the clarion far 
had rung, 

Obeying answers ran from hill to 
. hill, 

And in the valley were repeated 

From Adria's mart a painful voice 
was borne, 

Like the low wailing of a bird forlorn ; 

liound the Campagna rang the thrill- 
ing call, 

And echoed loudly 'gainst the Koman 
wall, 

O'er poisonous marshes, down the 
purple shore, 

Then swept the sea, nor died amid its 
roar. 



And, lo ! the glad Sicilian shepherds 

heard, 
And sped through orange groves the 

wakening word ; 
From ^Etna's side the jubilant echo 

sprung, 
Tiil old Vesuvius woke, and all his 

vineyards rung. 

These sounds, commingling, reached 

the shadowy throne ; 
The shade from off the queenly brow 

was blown, 
Swift as a cloud gust-driven from the 

sun, 
And all her form a sudden splendor 

won. 
She dropped the robe, and in her 

beauty stood, 
Like Hero, gazing o'er the battling 

flood. 

At once, like meteors streaming down 
the air, 

Came all her court with every falchion 
bare, 

And round the summoning hero 
closely prest, 

Fanning the flame that fired his pa- 
triot breast. 

Through all the land there sped tu- 
multuous roar, 

Loud as the sea. The awakened 
mountains wore 

Their battle-flags of fire. The blaz- 
ing breath 

Of sudden conflict thundered notes 
of death ; 

Death to oppression wheresoe'er it 
be: 

The despots fled, and Italy was free ! 

" Yiva Italia !" Every prison door 
Swung with a sound that clanged 

from shore to shore. 
"Yiva Italia!" In his chains of 

rust 
The Press arose and shook them to 

the dust, 
Proclaiming, in the tumult of his glee, 
" Viva Italia ! Italy is free !" 

"Viva Italia !" rang the glad earth 

round. 
"Viva Italia!" Answering to the 

sound, 



192 



POEMS IN ITALY. 



The queenly shade descended, and her 

pride 
Was first to wreathe the brow which 

had defied 
And frighted her oppressors with its 

frown. 
She, who had sat in exile, looking 

down 
Long centuries of pain, her sad estate 
Mocked with the memory — she once 

was great — 
Now felt the long-lost sceptre in her 

hand, 
Eecei ved once more the homage of the 

land. 



MONTE TESTACCIO. 1 

This is the hill of vases, urns, and jars 
The shattered relics of a far-off 
time — 
It may be those which held beneath 
the stars 
The wine of the immortals, when 
the clime 
"Was golden with the glory of the 
morn, 
When the full grapes, half molten 
in the glow, 
From globes of lucent amber, or those 
born 
Unto the royal purple, gave their 
flow 
Of embryo eloquence and mellow verse. 
Here dusky grottos pierce the deep 
hill's side, 
Each welling with earth's sweetest 
boon and curse, 
Where mild-eyed Bacchus and his 
beasts abide — 
Where his light beaker, never emptied 
quite, 
Shows down its side the golden word 
"Content;" 
And though he sings or laughs his 
joy outright, 
Beneath that line the wine is never 
sent. 
The dregs he throws among his snarl- 
ing pards, 
Which rave and roar and wallow 
at the feet 
Of old Silenus, who no drop discards, 
But drains his two-hand flagon at 
a heat. 



These murky cells are choked with 
earthy musk, 
As they had reached and tapped the 
antique store 
Spilt by their shattered vases. The 
chill dusk 
Exhales the odor at the reeking 
door. 
From jutting fragments, broken lips 
of beasts, 
The potter's fancy, mocking webs 
of mould 
Pour down this columbarium of dead 
feasts, 
And fan the air unutterably old. 

What revellers o'er these flagons sung 
and laughed ? 
Where were the vineyards that be- 
stowed the wine ? 
It may be from this jar ^Eneas quaffed, 
And poured his first libation on the 
shrine 
Reared at his landing. It may be — 
But hold ! 
The astonished fancy, starting at 
the thought, 
Shrinks back from her own conjuring, 
where the bold 
Oblivious riddle stares and answers 
naught. 
Pelasgic, or Etruscan, Roman — all 
These forms may mingle here; but 
they refuse, 
More sternly than the mountains, to 
recall 
Their age, their makers, and, it ma} 7 
be, use. 

Enough ! A flood of delicate purple 
haze 
Pours through the trees : the very 
landscape reels 
With the pure wine of sunset : the 
soft blaze 
Heightens the loveliness it half con- 
ceals. 
Spite of the Cross that sanctifies the 
mound, 
These must be satyrs 'mong the 
carts and casks — 
Gay peasants, decked in goatskins, 
lounging round, 
Glowing with health and brown 
with vintage tasks. 



THE A P PI AN WAY. 



193 



Here, one by one, the little cars come I His marble peak, they halt their furi- 



Bearing the new-pressed tribute to 
the hill 



ous race, 
And pass demurely, voiceless, with 
bent heads. 



Crowned with their tents, and jocund Sighing, they pass with melancholy 

pace 
Where Keats and Shelley lie in 
flowery beds. 
The lowest deit}~ of classic Greece 
Here, like the highest, bows the 
willing knee : 
The last of her anointed bards were 
these, 
Though born in exile, where the 
northern sea 
Climbs the white cliff's, and, blind 
w T ith his own locks, 
Chants to the land Homeric tales 
of war, 
Or, like pale Sappho, on the summer 
rocks 
Breathes of Ionian isles that woo 
from far. 

Under cathedral branches, tall and 
dark, 
; er flowery choirs and ivy-clad 
retreats, 
Here swells the requiem of Shelley's 
lark, 
Here, nun-like, chants the night- 
ingale of Keats. 
Though far from England's shrine, 
they sleep apart, 
Their " 'Minster Abbey" is the 
world's great dome — 
Their " Poets' Corner" is its mighty 
heart, 
While tear-fed blossoms write their 
epitaphs in Borne ! 



with the din 
Of thick-strung bells, where count- 
less tassels fill 
The air with brightness, gayly ring- 
ing round 
A melody of colors deftly met. 
From the near lawn there comes the 
sudden sound 
Of hands that improvise the Casta- 
net 
With snapping fingers, while the tam- 
bourine 
Battles and throbs, and rude Cam- 
pagna feet 
Chase the tarantula about the green, 
Where smiles and flashing eyes 
together meet. 

Why, surely this is Arcady ? Not 
so. 
Or Andalusian dance - enamored 
home ? 
Not so. Or festival beneath the 
glow 
Of old Vesuvius ? Pilgrim, this is 
Borne ! 
But surely these are Bacchus' antique 
vaults, 
His chariot caverns and his leopard 
stalls, 
About whose doors his thirsty retinue 
halts? 
Stand by ! The rout begins ! his 
clarion calls ! 

Out of the gates, adrip, as it had 
dashed 
Through sudden showers of old 
Falernian juice, 
Bings the red car; the mellow air is 
flashed 
With music; song and merriment 
let loose 



THE APPIAN WAY. 

"WRITTEN" IN THE SHADE OF CASALE 
ROTONDO. 8 



Their fluttering reins, and follow i Here slumbers Borne, among her 



round the h 



broken tombs, 



With flying hair, like ancient char- '< A funeral highway stretching down 



loteers 



the past, 



When Nero led the circuit! Hark ! With few inscriptions, save the con- 
stant blooms 
By kindly Nature on these altars 



be still ! 
Just at the turn where Caius Ces- 
tius rears 
n 



cast. 



194 



POEMS IN ITALY. 



The dust of glory all around me lies, 
The ashes of dead nations and their 
kings : 
I hear no voice save what from out 
the skies 
The lark shakes down from his 
invisible wings. 

Where slept a Caesar, now the owlet 
hides — 
A silent spirit till the day has fled: 
Here gleams the lizard, there the viper 
glides — 
The steadfast guests of the patrician 
dead. 

A funeral aspect fills the whole cam- 
paign— 
Their tomb-like flocks the distant 
mounds disclose : 
Like scattered blocks of granite on 
the plain, 
The dove-hued oxen Virgil sang 
repose. 

The cities seated on surrounding 
mounts, 
Or what were cities, glimmer on the 
steeps 
Like cemeteries, and the fancy counts 
In vain their dead for whom no 
mortal weeps. 

Csecilia's Tomb looks west to Ha- 
drian's Mole 
In widowed silence : eastward, 
nameless, gray, 
Stripped of her marble art-embel- 
lished stole, 
The matron Mausoleum of the Way 

Sits with her crown of olives, robbed 
of all 
Save meek endurance and her ver- 
nal dome : 
Her grandeur tells of Eome before its 
fall, 
Her shattered splendor speaks of 
modern Eome. 

The broken masses quarried from her 
base 
To house a boor upon her head are 
thrust, 
Where dreamful sloth looks down 
upon the race 
Of heroes gone to history and dust. 



All Eome to-day sits on theburied past, 
Her later walls with sculptured 
blocks are flecked : 
The spoilers toiled for ages fierce and 
fast, 
Then left the rest to ruin and 
neglect. 

And still beneath their tread what 

wonders lie ! — 
Brave statues of the godlike and 

their gods, 
And columns that might corridor the 

sky, 
While scarce a spade upturns the 
shallow clods. 

Unearth their marble wonders, with 

their high 
Immortal lessons, to awake men 

here, 
And elsewhere to arrest, as they sweep 

Ambition's armies in their mad 
career. 

Who to their chariots chain the fiery 
team 
Of elements to' gain the realms of 
gold, 
Let them behold the more enduring 
dream 
Of Amphion-sculptors in the days 
of old. 

Exhume these silent teachers from 
the dust, 
And then — But hold ! I see 
around me strewn, 
O'er miles and miles of ruins, a thick 
crust 
Of shattered remnants in dark ages 
hewn 

For wanton pastime or for kilns of 
lime ! 
The very mortar in St. Peter's wall 
Hath had its votaries in that grand 
old time 
When Poesy and Art o'erlorded 
all. 

But that is past. What sound is this 
I hear 
More than the lark's? As from a 
mournful lyre 



THE APPIAN WAY. 195 


A weird, complaining murmur fills 


There are to whom whole days of 


my ear : 


light are given, 


I look above, and, lo ! the seolian 


And fruitful seasons of unclouded 


wire 


j°y > 




But not to me since through my 


Sings in the wind. It is the light- 


childhood's heaven 


ning's track 


I wandered out a songful-hearted 


Stretching o'er sepulchres, which 


boy, 


serve for posts ; 




And yonder the swift train weaves 


Seeking the unscythed orchard with 


forth and back. 


the bees — 


Thou highway of the dead ! where 


A little taller than the clover 


are thy ghosts ? 


then, 




With light hair blown like wings 


The electric fire that reaches Rome 


upon the breeze — 


to-day 


Long ere I knew the stubble-world 


May give at best a poor galvanic 


of men. 


thrill— 




The train that streams along the iron 


But this is vain ; and yet the heart 


way 


will sigh, 


May bring but mourners to the 


At times adown her dark sepulchral 


sevenfold hill : 


way, 




Even when, as now, without a cloud 


All this may be, but still within me 


the sky 


burns 


Is full of song that glorifies the day. 


The prayerful dream and hope that 




even I 


And surely on these shrines of pain 


May see her rise above her funeral 


and care 


urns, 


Some chords of pleasure, stretch- 


And throw her long-worn sack- 


ing from abroad, 


cloth bravely by. 


Reach to the soul's deep citadel, and 




there 


There is a sad necropolis in the heart, 


Bring messages of progress, peace, 


A street of buried loves and joys 


and God ! 


and dreams, 




"Where nest the night-owls, which will 


Thus there is good in all, and over 


not depart, 


all, 


But hide the deeper when the day- 


And e'en 'mid tombs some pleasure 


light beams. 


finds a place ; 




And sympathies, that followed from 


And if a bird of hope sings overhead, 


our fall, 


Wooing to pleasures near or far 


On scenes like this may shed a 


away, 


soothing grace. 


They only wait the darkened hour to 




spread 


So, 'mid these tumuli of long-gone 


Their secret wings and swoop upon 


years, 


their prey. 


A fruitful sadness on the spirit 




beams — 


With many sighs breathed o'er these 


A calm content to lie where all are 


funeral heaps 


peers 


I sit like Marius — not above the 


When called, and sloop that sleep 


wall 


which knows no dreams. 


Of ruined greatness, but my spirit 




weeps 


It matters little where our dust is laid ; 


O'er shattered fanes, where few are 


But if there be a choice beneath the 


left to fall. 


dome 



196 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



Of heaven's high temple, lay me in 
the shade 
Of cypress boughs which guard the 
dead in Rome. 



And yet I love my country none the 
less : 
My faith fulfils her prophet's grand- 
est dream, 
And when death wooes me to his cold 
caress, 
My hovering soul shall watch her 
course, supreme 



In spite of traitors and ambitious fools, 
Who threaten ruin to our soaring 
towers ! 
The Master-Builder works with many 
tools 
When he erects a building such as 
ours. 

May, 1870, Rome. 



Who would destroy to profit by the 
spoils 
Are sturdy laborers in the eye of 
God: t 
The mad aspirant on his ladder toils, 
Forgetting that he also bears a hod. 

The great and good have bled to make 
us free : 
Our rainbow banner, by their hands 
unfurled, 
Waves o'er the new-born nation, yet 
to be 
The mother of a liberated world. . 

Her Appian Way shall be the road to 
Fame, 
And lined with many a Christian 
spire and dome : 
Her arch triumphal, reared in Free- 
dom's name, 
Shall lead mankind to nobler marts 
than Rome ! 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 

PART FIRST. 



TO 

HIRAM POWERS, 

AS AN EVIDENCE OF FRIENDSHIP AND ADMIRATION, 

THIS POEM 

IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. 



Bagni di Lttcca,) 
Sept. 1, 1855. j 



He told a tale as wild as sad; 

And they who listened deemed it mad — 

Mad as the delirious dream 

Of one who, on an Indinn stream 

Floating in a Morphean barque, 

Feeds on the charmed lotus-leaf — 

While under the palms, in visions brief, 

Through shadows of sunset, golden-dark, 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 197 


The camels and camelopards stand 


With plumed tribes on the yellow sand, 


To gaze with steadfast, wondering eyes 


Where the feeding dreamer floating lies. 


I. 


Could leap ; and only the gust of 




spray, 


On" a little, seaward-sloping lawn, 


Seeking the cloud, passed up that 


The first bright half-hour after 


way. 


dawn — 




"With golden hair and cheeks as red 


It might be a moon of dawns, per- 


"As the hue in the brightening orient 


chance, 


spread, 


Since first the stranger met her glance, 


The child and the light of the fisher- 


And never at any later time 


man's home, 


Than the crimson flush of the morn- 


Bearing a pail that dript its foam 


ing's prime, 


Like snow-flakes on the wayside grass, 


"With the latest star he walked the 


"Went singing as if her soul would 


shore, 


pass 


And when that failed was seen no 


Into the air, and o'ertake that bird 


more. 


"Which sang in the sky less seen than 




heard. 


They grew acquainted — yet did not 




speak : 


Her path was along the sweet-brier 


There was a sadness on his cheek 


lane, 


His smile made sadder ; and his look 


Dividing the sea from the clover 


Seemed to reflect some parchment 


plain : 


book 


Below, the billows inland bore 


"Writ in a cave by a wizard gray 


And threw their foam-wreaths on the 


To spirit both body and soul away. 


shore ; 


Her heart's deep instinct read in his 


Above, the orchards, lightly blown, 


eye 


(Scattered their snowy garlands down, 


How he had sought that height to die : 


As if the very trees would spread 


And, as one bears flowers of sweetest 


A pure white path for her virgin 


bloom 


tread. 


To brighten a sick man's twilight 




room, 


She plucked a violet from the hedge, 


When now they met, with resistless 


And then a flower from the perilous 


grace 


edge 


She stood before him — scarce looked 


Of a cliff where foamed the sea's 


in his face, 


white ire, — 


Tendered the blossoms, then quick- 


And now a bloom from the wayside 


ened her pace. 


brier ; 


He pressed them to his lips, and then 


Then placed them in her russet vest, 


Strolled round to' his cloudy home 


To sway to the heaving of her breast. 


again. 


Descending the steep of the sea-side 


He climbed to his airy balcony, 


rocks, 


That overbrowed the eastern sea : 


In pathways worn by the shepherds' 


Like a spirit in a dusky cloud, 


flocks, 


O'erleaning the world in wonder 


She saw the Stranger, whose cliff- 


bowed, 


perched home 


Pale Roland leaned, and gazed below 


Stood higher than ever the wiid sea- 


Into the gulfs — until on the flow 


foam 


Of the billows his fancies seemed to go : 


17* 



198 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



And thus to the air and the spirits of 
air, 

Those delicate listeners everywhere, 

He winged his thoughts with careless 
words, 

Till they sailed the ocean like sea- 
born birds. 



11 My house is built on the cliff's tall 

crest, 
As high as an eagle might choose her 

nest : 
The builders have descended the hill, 
Like spirits who have done their mas- 
ter's will. 
Below, the billows in endless reach 
Commune in • uncomprehended 

speech — 
A language still — there is no sound 
But symbols something, though un- 
found. 

11 Here from the world I can safely 

lean 
And feel, if not hear, what the bil- 

• lows mean ; 
And dropping this flower, I can watch 

it sway 
Till it diminishes into the spray. 
The little alien from its hill-side home 
Is clasped and whirled in the heartless 

foam ! 
Oh, reckless hand ! it was the flower 
The peasant-girl gave me this very 

hour ! 
Well, it is gone — so let it be : 
Not Indus could restore to me, 
With all its dew and odor fine, 
Fresh and free from the bitter brine, 
That victim of a heedless hand ! 
But it must be fretted along the 

sand 
Till drowned and crushed, a noisome 

thing 
At last, where the foulest sea-weeds 

cling ! 

" Thus with the maid it may be, per- 
chance, 

Borne away from her vernal haunts 

To make some heartless breast look 
bright, 

Then carried to some dizzy height 



And dropt from a hand relentlessly 
Into the gulfs of a pitiless sea — 
Into the tumultuous fret and foam 
To perish — an alien far from home ! 

" Here I stand, like a Persian priest, 
Gazing forever into the east, 
And bow my head before the sun, 
The symbol of a mightier One. 

" Beheld from here, with march un- 
ending, 

By night and by day the sky is as- 
cending ; 

This is the vision of youth — the scope 

Where rises the golden scale of 
Hope, — 

When the heart in its freshness stout 
and hale 

Reeks not of the opposing scale, 

Which, though unseen in the future 
air, 

Sinks and sinks with its weight of 
despair. 

" Nothing sets save yonder sail 
Chased away by an outward gale, 
And every hour to my straining gaze 
Some new barque issues through the 

haze, — 
Fresh, perchance, from the Orient, 
It sails with spicy breezes bent, 
Like that barge on the Cydnus seen 
Laden with odors that veiled a queen. 
It comes from what mysterious land? 
With freight of Bagdat or Samar- 

cand? 
From under the guns of Arabian 

forts, 
Or out of Al-Raschid's golden ports ? 
From India, or the barbarous isles 
Where the Pacific summer smiles ? 
I envy the sea-bird sailing there 
In the trackless ocean of blue air; 
It can see and it can hear 
What may never meet my eye or ear. 

" I look to the east — all things ascend, 
And with them the eye and the heart 

must tend, — 
Only the heavy earth opprest, 
Turning forever out of the west, 
Rolls down and down : the fancy feels 
The sinking, and the spirit reels ! 
What was the east an hour ago 
Even while I gaze is no longer so — 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



199 



I am plunging now through its azure 

veil, 
"While another rises dim and pale, 
And this must shortly sink afar 
To hold in the west the evening star. 

" Here clinging we are daily cast 
Into the future, out of the past, — 
Through the sunshine into the 

night, — 
Through the darkness into the light. 
Thus we whirl in the noiseless stream, 
And the sky glides over us like a 

dream, 
Full of stars and mystery 
And prophecy of things to be. 

'• This very moment we hold a place 
Never filled before in space — 
"Where never again the world shall 

reel — 
The same wave never revisits the 

wheel. 
Year by year our course is run 
In a voyage around the sun ; 
In million circlings forth and back 
"We never retrace a once gone track. 
Did the countless earths abroad, like 

snails. 
Leave behind them shining trails, 
What a web of strange design 
Through the eternal space would 

shine ! 
And such a web of marvellous lines 
Left by each satellite and sun, 
Though by us unseen, still clearly 

shines 
To the observant eye of One. 

11 And did the countless souls of men 
Leave life-trails visible to the ken, 
Each hued with color to betray 
The character which passed that way, 
How intricate and variously-hued 
"Would seem the woof of pathways 

rude 
Across the world's great surface laid ! 
And so inwoven with lines of shade, | 
Of vice and cruelty, anger and hate, 
That darkness would preponderate! 
And such a woof of tangled trails 
Lies o'er the world and never pales — 

varies. On earth's great page 
Each soul records its pilgrimage, 
And under the • , each shines 

As visible in eternal lines, 



As on the cliff I see from here 
The various strata-lines appear. 

"Thank Heaven! my path shall no 

longer run 
"With the common highways under 

the sun ! 
From the ways of men it shall lie 

apart, 
On a new and a separate chart ; 
Xo other foot shall e'er intrude 
In my skyey holds of solitude. 
Henceforth alone I walk afar 
In the dream which death shall 

scarcely mar, 
Far above the obtrusive ken 
And idle inquiry of men. 
Already I can hear rehearse 
The higher life of the universe, 
Commune with those spirits whose 

white tents 
Are never stirred by these elements, 
Camped on the dim ethereal fields 
"With meteor banners and starry 

shields ! 

• • And now my sole companion shall be 
My sorrow embodied; and, hermit- 
like, we 
"Will renounce the world and rest at 

ease. 
Content with our own sweet svmpa- 

thies. 
Tell me no more of that larger plan, 
The charity for and the faith in man : 
I have tried it well, and ever found 
The seven sins filling its utmost 

bound ! 
And they who live in the world must be 
One with the world, or content to see 
Their dearest rights and their holiest 

trust 
"With heels of steel trampled into the 

dust ! 
All this I have suffered, and scarcely 

restrained 
At times the revenge whose swift 

blow would have gained 
The bad world's respect, and left me 

exempt 
A little from all save my soul's self- 
contempt. 
I was as a weed that is chafed on the 

beach ; 
But, Heaven be praised ! being thrown 
out of reach, 



200 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



I have taken firm root in the cliff, 

where no more 
The billows affright with their roll 

and their roar. 
I have tasted the best which the 

world can bestow, 
But friendship turned bitter — love 

ended in woe! 

" In the school of envy, and malice, 

and strife, 
I have studied and learned the lesson 

of life ; 
Studied it well from that dreary hour 
When the dark-hearted Fates had 

power, 
Ministering at my birth — who threw 
Upon my brow their black baptismal 

dew ! 
From that sad night what time my 

spirit's barque, 
Sailing over the sea of space, 
In a moment ominous and dark, 
Was stranded on this desert place, — 
This treacherous reef of time, 
This rank and poisonous clime 
Called earth, where savage men 
In hut or palace make their hateful 

den, — 
I have known little peace and less of 

joy! 
And even when a pleasure-seeking 

boy, 
Unlovely faces with distempered 

tongue 
Were my attendants, and they ever 

hung 
Inseparably about me, like the shades 
From a baleful torchlight flung, 
Which the torch-bearer not evades 
Until the light be drenched 
And in the oblivious sea of death and 

darkness quenched. 
And I have borne this torch — 
This flickering life — and still must 

bear, 
Watching it flaunt and flare, 
Where all my hopes, like night- 
moths, fly and scorch 
Their airy pinions, till their writhing 

forms 
Drop round my feet a mass of wing- 
less worms ! 

" But, lo ! the tempest of the world is 

past ! 
Its passion-bolts are no longer cast 



About me, and I feel as one 

Who stands to gaze when life is done ! 

Even the peasant with her bright blue 

eye 
Seemed but the remnant of a cloud 

gone by ; 
Or rather let me deem her form 
The farewell rainbow of the storm. 
I am glad that in leaving this gallery 
Of horrors that have frowned on me, 
A living thing so pure and bright 
Should have closed the hateful place 

from sight. 

" How sweet it is to find release 
In this aerial tower of peace! 
In this antechamber of the sky 
Next to the halls of eternity — 
With only one thin door between 
This and the outer world serene, 
Waiting to take that one step more 
When opens the celestial door, 
And then, with the sudden splendor 

blind, 
Hear the great portals close behind !" 



in. 

'Twas evening, and he mounted high 
Up to the terrace that faced the sky. 
The fisherman, in his boat below 
Swinging to the billows' flow, 
Beheld him like a guard of old 
On a dusky tower — a shadow bold 
Standing against the sundown gold. 

There Roland watched the dome of day 
In a conflagration fall away, 
And saw the first white star that sped 
To gaze at the sunset ere it fled. 
Westward he saw the spires and domes 
Overtopping the noisy homes 
Of toil and trade, but all so far 
He felt no tremor of the jar 
That like a daily earthquake rolls 
Through the world of dust-bound 
souls. 

Out of the east the moon arose 

Bed as Mont Blanc at morning glows ; 

Over the sea, like a ship on fire, 

She sailed with her one star sailing by 

her. 
Long, long he gazed, till he felt the 

might 
And glory that pervade the night. 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



201 



Awhile he looked upon the seas, 
Then gazed to the shadowy orchard 

trees, 
And saw the fisherman's quiet home 
Sitting under the vernal dome 
Of one great elm, where the fire-flies 

played 
"With their feast of lanterns nightly 

made. 

He saw the various shadows pass 
Over the illumined glass, — 
Saw tapers, moving to and fro, 
From window to window come and go, 
Like those lights which phantom 

hands 
Wave at night o'er marshy lands, — 
Saw the maid at her casement lean, 
And her shade steal into the night 

serene. 
" Thus from the casements of life," 

he mused, 
" Our shadows are outward cast, con- 
fused 
Into a greater shade. What eye 
Shall trace these phantoms where they 

fly? 
''None : — And it much behooves us all 
That the lights from whence these 

shadows fall 
Should be guarded well and trimmed 

with care, 
That the flame shall neither sink nor 

flare, 
Protected from the fitful gusts 
Blown from the lips of Caliban lusts." 

Here and there a meteor fleet, 
Struck from the invisible feet 
Of Night's wild coursers, fierce and 

black, 
Streamed over the star-paven track : 
Or it may be this voiceless levin, 
Launched from the unseen clouds of 

heaven, 
Are bolts by spirit-tempests hurled 
Into a purgatorial world ; 
Or they may be in the fields of blue 
Offsprings of nameless damps and 

dew, — 
Celestial will-o'-wisps at play, 
Leading benighted souls astray. 

Midnight was near. With a look di- 
vine 

He saw the maid at her chamber 
shrine. 



1 Two little tapers with flaming wicks 
Burned beside a crucifix. 
And while she prayed, it seemed 
Over her face a splendor beamed, — 
A light of purity and grace 
Shed from the suffering Saviour's face. 
Her angel look was upward turned ; 
Her white breast heaved as if it 

yearned 
To breathe her very soul away 
In a prayer which words had failed 

to say. 
Her upturned face — her fallen hair, 
Her hands clasped on her bosom fair, 
Her heaving breast but half concealed, 
The fulness of her prayer revealed. 

As the watcher gazed, he felt his 
brain 

Branded with a forgotten pain ; 

And thoughts he had deemed frozen, 
dead, 

Warmed snakelike, by his heart's 
flame fed, 

Till thus the voice of a demon guest 

With scornful laugh its joy ex- 
pressed : — 

" The hawk looks down on the ring- 
dove 's nest ; 

He loves he?- meek voice and her smooth 
meek breast I 

And the beautiful bird shall still be as 
meek 

When her red heart quivers in the 
falcon's beak!'' 1 

" Horrible fiend !" he cried, in pain, 
" Back to your baneful den again ! 
Oh, Death, stand by me in this hour, 
And strike me ere the fiend have 



power 



Have 1 not, with a terrible oath, 
On the breast of the dying sworn my 

troth ? 
Did I not swear when Death^as at 

strife, 
In the white dome of her bosom, with 

Life,— 
Though I had wronged her living 

trust, — 
To be true, ay, as true as the tomb to 

her dust ? 
For this she forgave the great wrong 

I had wrought, 
And mingled my name in her last 

sweet thought, 



202 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



And promised that, in an hour of fear, 
Her soul should be as a guardian 
near !" 

As he spoke, the great tears swam 

over his gaze, 
Till the white moon reeled in delirious 

haze, 
And the stars were unsteady as gust- 
winnowed chaff — 
Still his innermost soul heard the 

mad demon laugh. 
"Look! look again!" Thus cried 

the fiend, 
" One look before the vision is 

screened — 
Oh, never was Parian so fair to the 

sight ! 
Oh, never such beauty pulsed love 

through the night!" 

But still the pale man, like some 

martyr who dies, 
Looked into the sky with fixed ago- 
nized eyes. 
Sighing, " Ida ! dear Ida ! The hour 

of fear, 
Like a tiger in wait for its prey, 

crouches here ! 
I see its red eyes, and I feel its hot 

breath ! — 
Come forth, thou sweet friend, from 

the gateways of Death ! 
Press me close — side to side — soul to 

soul — mind to mind — 
Or lead through that path thou too 

early didst find !" 

As he spoke, soft lips, like sunshine 

warm, 
Kissed from his brow the late alarm — 
Pale delicate arms his neck caressed, 
And the head of a spirit was laid on 

his breast ! 
The silken hair that fell unfurled 
Still gleamed with the hue of another 

world : 
So soft were her tresses, each breath 

of the gale 
Caressed them in air like a gossamer 

veil ; 
And her garments still breathed of 

ethereal dew 
In fields where no mortal has ever 



Then the fiend exclaimed with louder 

jeers — 
While the spirit pressed her hands to 

her ears, 
And gazed with that imploring 

look l 

"Which only a demon's eye could 

brook — 
" This hour, thou wretched ghost ! is 

thine — 
But the next and the next shall all be 

mine ! 
The cup is brewing which he shall 

quaff, 
While the angels shall weep and the 

fiends shall laugh ! 
Then thou shalt be scourged away 

with scorn 
Into the outer dark forlorn, 
And a mortal head usurp the breast 
Which late thy phantom cheek has 

prest ! 
Blood warms to blood — dust cleaves 

to dust — 
And in that hour depart thou must, 
Thou dead leaf on a midnight gust !" 

Then even as a pale dead leaf 
Still clinging where its hour is brief, 
The spirit-lady in her grief 
Shuddered and sighed, as if even 

now 
The wind was plucking her from the 

bough. 

" Poland !" she cried, f i there's one 

hour of dread, 
Blackening like that cloud o'erhead ; 
A bitter wind is rising fast, 
Like this which brings the ocean 

blast!" 
" It shall not be!" the bold man cried ; 
" No wind shall bear thee from my 

side ! 
Let us descend to the altar shrine, 
And kneel before the cross divine. 
'Tis an altar by repentance built, 
In memory of my former guilt, 
That a daily prayer might there be 

made, 
To ransom thy departed shade." 

Then they descended. The east winds 

came, 
Trampling the sea into phosphor 

flame, 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



203 



Which filled- the black arch of the 

night 
"With sheeted flashings of spectral 

light. 
And every maniac ocean-gust 
Scattered 'the feathery foam, like dust, 
Into the air — again and again 
Flinging on the window-pane 
White briny flakes, in rage and spite, 
As if to drown the altar light. 



Still leaning on her lover's breast, 
The spirit thus her crime confessed : — 

' : Roland! from too much loving 

thee, 
From fear thou wert not wholly mine, 
My lips partook of misery, 
And left for thee that bitter wine 
Pressed in the dark from woe's black 



"I drained the cup that drowns with 

sleep, 
And pillowed my head on the breast 

of Death: 
He closed the lids that ceased to weep, 
And kissed the lips at their latest 

breath ! 
That moment I had untimely birth 
Out of the chrysalis of earth ! 
Then I saw that bv the horrible deed 

bain was 

not freed 
I had burst away from a windowed 

cell 
Into a dungeon unfathomable — 
Into utter night — where I could only 

hoar 
The sighing of cold phantoms near ! 
I shrank with dread ; but soon I knew 
They also shrank with dread from me ; 
And presently I began to see 
Thin shapes of such a ghastly hue 
That sudden agues thrilled me 

through ! 

" Some bore in their hands, as sign 

- of guilt, 
Keen poniards crimson to the hilt. 
Which, ever and anon, in wild despair 
They struck into their breasts of air : 



Some pressed to their pale lips empty 

vials 
Till frenzied with their fruitless trials : 
Some, with their faces to the sky, 
Walked ever searching for a beam . 
Some leaped from shadowv turrets 

high, 
And fell, as in a nightmare dream, 
Half-way, and stopped, as some mad 

rill, 
That leaps from the top of an alpine 

hill, 
Ere it reaches the rocks it hoped to 

win, 
Is borne away in a vapor thin : 
Some plunged them into counterfeit 

pools — 
Into water that neither drowns nor 

cools 
The horrible fever that burns the brain, 
Then climbed despairing to plunge 

again : 
And there were lovers together 

clasped, 
O'er fumeless braziers, who sighed 

and gasped, 
Staring wonder in each other's eye, 
And tantalized that they did not die. 

" Then as I passed, with marvelling 
stare 

They gazed, forgetting their own de- 
spair. 

Oh, horrible! their eyes did °:loat 

Upon me, till at my ashen throat 

I felt the fiery viper thirst 

Which ever in that dry air is nurst. 

And, ere I was aware, 

I had raised the cup it was mine to 
bear : 

My pale lips cleaved to the goblet dim, 

And found but dust on the heated 
rim ; 

And then 1 knew — oh, misery ! — 

It was the same I had pledged to 
thee — 

To absent thee, and to present Death, 

Pledged and drained at one long- 
drawn breath — 

Drained to the dregs ! Then a hot 
Avind sighed 

Close in my ear — ' Thou suicide !' 

And those two words flew 

Into my heart, and pierced it through ; 

And my eyes trrew blind with pain 

As a serpent which, with rage insane, 



204 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



And writhes in the dust with self- 
dealt pangs. 

Then in my agony's wild excess 

I partly swooned, and the pain grew 
less ; 

"While a form, not all devoid of kind- 
ness, 

Seemed leaning o'er me in my blind- 
ness, 

And whispered in my aching ear 

Words which then were sweet to hear. 

"'Hast thou no friend?' the spirit 

said, 
' Who would rejoice wert thou not 

dead ? 
Who in his heart would call thee back 
Into the world's green, visible track? 
If such an one there be, 
Whose soul yearns constantly for thee, 
Hearken, and when his voice is heard 
Breathing one recalling word, 
Arise and hasten, the veil is then 
Lifted, and thou mayst return again ! 
And it shall be thy fate, perchance, 
To see the long dull years advance, 
And still a bloodless ghost to be 
For many a weary century. 
When all whom thou hast loved are 

fled 
Into the regions overhead. 
Then drearier far that world will be, 
W T ith its homes and haunts reminding 

thee 
Of the loved and lost, than even this, 
Where the vampire Pain enthroned is. 
But be thou ever wary and wise, 
Gazing with unsleeping eyes, 
And thou, perchance, shalt find ere 

long 
Some spirit, racked with sin or 

wrong, 
Aweary of Life's daily goad 
And sinking under her dusty load, 
Who, with rash and desperate hand, 
Is about to sever the mortal band 
Which binds her down, as once didst 

thou, 
To be the shadow which thou art now. 
At such an hour be thou then near, 
And when the spirit shall disappear, 
And the deserted form 
Lies beside thee, silent, warm, 
Like a suit of mail in hot disdain 
Discarded on a battle-plain, 



Don thou that heated armor then, 
And strive with the striving world 

again ! 
And through long struggling it may 

be 
Thou mayst regain thy liberty !' 

"Thus spake the spirit. Then it 

seemed 
A sudden light within me beamed ; 
And I arose and earthward sped 
With a cautious, noiseless tread, 
Hearkening ever for that voice 
To make my phantom heart rejoice. 

" Through fields of twilight first I 

passed, 
Then through a sunset — till at last 
I heard the roar 

Of ocean jargoning with the shore, — 
The sea-like voice of humanity, 
And the tongue-like shouting of the 

sea ! 
Then, as the night's wide track 
Under my feet rolled dim and black, 
I heard the voice which summoned 

me, 
' Ida !' it cried, and I came to thee !" 



Who that has heard the billows roar 
On the rocky bastions of the shore, 
Could restrain the sense of sublimity 
Which drew him to overlook the sea — 
One sea with the terror of many seas ! 
And held him with the mysterious law 
Of wonder and soul-pervading awe. 
And sympathy, the child of these ? 

Out to the foamy balcony, 
Where the phospor light 
And the black of the night 
Struggled in gloomy rivalry, 
Strode Roland — his cloak and hair 
Twitched by the briny hands of air, 
And all his dusk garb instantly 
Made white with the insult of the sea ! 

Burning through the eastern dark, 
At the bow of a perilous barque, 
Rising with alternate leap 
Out of the valleys of the deep, 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



205 



He beheld a crimson light 

Driving shoreward through the 

night, — 
Watched it as the lurid flame 
Straight to its destruction came ! 
On itT drove before the gale, 
"With empty mast or shivered sail ; 
And Roland shuddered in his fear 
As he saw it neither tack nor veer, 
And trembled to think of a crowded 

deck 
Dashed at his feet a shapeless wreck ! 

A shock ! A shriek ! The light was 
drowned ! 

And the billows leaped with a higher 
bound ! 

And the skyward spray the instant 
after 

Was stunned with the ocean's scorn- 
ful laughter ! 

Then, bewildered with pain and fright, 
Roland descended the stormy height, 
Finding his way by the phosphor 

light, 
To seek a in id the wild uproar 
The drowning bodies thrown on 

shore. 
Suddenly at his feet a form 
Lay like an offering from the storm ! 
White as a stranded wreath of foam, 
White as a ghost from its eharnel 

home, 
It lay where the gust with blinding 

flight 
Strove to hide the shape from sight, 
Like a maniac murderer, to and fro 
Raving and flinging the scattering 

snow 
Over the victim that mocks his de- 
spair 
With its unveiled face and tell-tale 

stare ! 
A moment the brave man's heart re- 
coiled, 
Then he lifted the body and upward 
toiled. 



It was a sight both wild and dread 
To see the living for the dead — 
One stubborn and unaided form — 
Battling with an ocean storm, — 



Toiling up the jagged path, 
Chased by the billows in their wrath, 
Bearing the dripping shape away 
Which the sea had deemed its prey. 

Thus laden, Roland among the rocks 
Strove upward 'mid the desperate 

shocks 
Of wind and wave — climbing a track 
As crooked as that on the tempest's 

wrack, 
Where the armed Thunder in his ire 
Descends in a zigzag path of fire ! 
The long black hair 
Of the drowned form he strove to 

bear, 
Flashed abroad on the wet sea-air, 
Wild as the tresses of Despair : 
And he thought, as he gazed on the 

drooping head 
Where the writhing locks were so 

wildly spread, 
Of the twisted horrors Medusa wore — 
And a shudder pierced him to the 

core. 

But now he heard, or deemed he 

heard, 
The sound of that most piteous word, 
That only word the full heart knows 
To sj'llable its joys and woes, — 
A sigh ! Like a night-bird sweeping 

near, 
Its soft wing fluttered past his ear. 
And he felt the heave of the rounded 

breast 
Which close against his own was 

prest : 
Then through his frame he took new 

strength, 
And with upward toiling gained at 

length 
The gusty height ! A moment there, 
While the lightning lent its sheeted 

glare, 
That group stood in the misty air 
Like statues on a terrace high, 
Relieved on a dusky wall of sky. 



VII. 

Into the care of a gray-haired crone, 
The sibyl who tended his dull hearth- 
stone, 



18 



206 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



He yielded the body. A couch was 

spread, 
And the lady was laid as she were 

not dead ; 
And the dame from off the swooning 

face 
Smoothed the wet locks into their 

place ; 
And Roland, when the salt sea- 
spray 
"Which blurred his vision was cleared 

away, 
'Holding a white torch, bent to trace 
The features of that sleeping face. 
His heart stood still ! 
His blood ran chill ! 
His wide eyes could not gaze their 

fill! * 
And as his marvelling face was drawn 
Nearer and nearer to stare thereon — 
Slowly — slowly as a veil 
Lifted from a phantom's visage pale, 
The lady's delicate lids were raised, 
And in Roland's face the soft orbs 

gazed 
"With all that touching tenderness 
"Which only loving eyes express. 

He had clasped the ghost of his be- 
loved, 
And not a tremor in his soul was 

moved — 
Prom lips of air had taken the kiss, 
"With not a fear to mar the bliss, — 
And heard what the threatening 

demon said, 
With a pang of -pain but not of 
dread ! 

But now an icy horror stole 

Through the deepest depths of his in- 
most soul ; 

For here indeed was the risen dead 

For whom the funeral tears were shed ! 

A spectre of dust ! — a ghost of clay ! — 

That lived when the spirit had passed 
away. 

He trembled, but could not move or 
speak : 

He had gazed in those eyes till his 
will was weak. 

Then the lady sighed, and her bosom 

heaved, 
And she faintly smiled, as her heart 

was grieved ; 



While the thought of pain which 

shadowed her brow 
Said, " Roland, ah ! Roland, thou 

lovest me not now !" 
When a great tear stole from under 

her lid, 
And rebu kingly over her white cheek 

slid:. 
Then Roland cried as he clasped her 

hand, 
" 'Tis a dream that I cannot under- 
stand ! 
Forgive me, dear Ida, if even I seem 
To wrong thy sweet shade in the dark 

of a dream !" 

" Oh, joy ! Thou hast called me 
' dear Ida,' " she cried, 

And she lovingly drew him more 
close to her side. 

That voice — 'twas the same he had 
heard in gone days, 

While she poured in his eyes as of 
old her soft gaze. 

Then she sighed — " Ah ! dear Roland, 
a vision it seems ? — 

To me 'tis the sweetest of all waking 
dreams ! 

And let me recount in this hour of 
bliss 

How I fled out of the past into this, 

Escaping from Death's black preci- 
pice. 

VIII. 

"Far back in that dark desperate 

hour, 
When the swart mandragore had 

power, — 
W 7 hile the suicidal draught, like flame, 
Through all the galleries of my frame 
Spread its malignant tire — even then 
I repented and prayed for life again — 
Not from the torture ; but that I 

knew, 
When it seemed too late, that thou 

wert true. 

" And then I swooned, and heard the 

tread 
Of muffled feet — while sad hearts said, 
In sighs and whispers, ' She is dead ! 

is dead !' 
And then I knew — oh, woe was me! — 
That word was a shaft of pain to thee, 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



20' 



A shaft which I had winged with flame 
And sped — and yet could not reclaim ! 
I saw thy high soul with the blow 
Struck to the dreary plains of woe, 
Yet struggling in its fall, as when 
An eagle, sailing with sunward ken, 
Keceives from the heartless archer's 

bow 
The envious arrow winged from below. 

" Then I felt thy hasty farewell kiss, — 

A touch of mingled torture and bliss ; 

And my soul within me writhed with 
pain 

That I could not return that kiss again. 

And then you fled ! I heard the door 

Swing loud behind — and heard no 
more. 

My very soul then swooned — and all 

Was blacker than midnight's starless 
pall. 

And more I know not — till a long 
cool breath 

Came into my breast and chased out 
Death— 

Or that dark sleep which did counter- 
feit 

Black Death so well, that I scarcely yet 

Can realize the miracle 

"Which finds me freed from his dream- 
less spell. 

" Then I awoke, and saw the room 
Tricked out with all the pompous 

gloom 
Of funeral weeds — the air was sick 
With incense-fumes suspended thick 
And blue, as at morn o'er a stagnant 

lake 
Swings the venomous mist ere the 

winds awake. 
There I saw two tapers with fiendish 

glare 
Burning in the ghastly air ; 
And my breast with horrible pain was 

weighed, 
As if by the weight of a black dream 

made. 
I found it was a cross of gold 
"Which lay on my bosom so heavy 

and cold — 
A cross entwined with lily-bells, 
And framed in a wreath of immor- 
telles. 
A garland of flame — a cross of fire — 
And I outstretched on a martyr's pyre 



Had been less terrible ! — So at last, 
By struggling I grew strong, and cast 
These emblems of death from off* my 

breast, 
And, breathing, felt no more opprest. 

" Then you should have heard the 

shriek 
Of Death's stout ward'ress ! — Pale and 

weak, 
She reeled and tottered beyond the 

door, 
And fell in a fit on the marble floor. 
She awoke a maniac — her hair turned 

gray— 
And a maniac she goes to this very 

day. 

" Then the household and the priest 

came in — 
The priest in his robe as black as 

sin ! — 
All shuddered and shrank ; till I rose 

and smiled, 
When they rushed to my side with 

wonder wild, 
And cried, in their mingled joy and 

dread, 
'She lives! Our Ida is not dead !' 



IX. 



" Days passed, and daily I asked for 

thee, 
Till at last they pointed over the sea, 
And said, in the madness of thy de- 
spair 
Thy barque had followed the red sun 

there. 
For hours they had watched the west- 
ward sail 
Growing in the distance pale, 
And sinking till beyond the line 
Of the flaming, sunset-gilded brine 
It set, like a star, — and never more 
Came tidings of that barque to shore. 

"Then with a grief too great for 

speech, 
I wandered daily to the beach 
With one companion gray and old, 
A reverend friar — who hourly told 
His • Aves' as we walked the sand — 
And the pious tears, on his sunbrown 

hand 



208 THE HOUSE . 


BY THE SEA. 


His old eyes dropped, outcounted the 


And dimly heard a voice of glee 


beads 


Singing some ballad about the sea ! — - 


As he thought of my sorrow ! My 


'Twas the skipper's voice, as the helm 


poor heart bleeds 


he prest, 


That these tearful eyes shall no more 

win 
A sight of that saintly Capuchin ! 


Heading the shallop out to the west I 


" The Capuchin was at my side, 




Or else for very fear I had died. 


" At last we found 


There we sat on deck, in the breezy 


A little shallop westward bound ; 


shade 


The daintest thing that ever yet 


By the one tall lateen canvas made, — 


Was on the treacherous ocean set. 


Still flashing on in our track of foam 


Under the prow we read her name, 


When the venturous sea-gull turned 


Written in ciphers of golden flame, — 


for home. 


1 The Fire-Bearer.' Each letter 




did make, 


" Thus dreamily sitting, for many a 


The semblance of a twisted snake, — 


day 


One with the other all intervolved, 


Under the bow we heard the spray, 


Like a riddle that is slowly solved. 


And watched our backward path of 




white, 


"What ails the dame? What thus 


And gazed on its liquid fire b}^ night. 


can make 




Her eyes so wide and her limbs to 


" Under us eastward the sea went by, 


quake?" 


Over us westward went the sky — 


The crone replied, with a look of awe, 


The sun and the moon and those silver 


"Forgive me, lady, I thought 1 


barques, 


saw — 


Those soul-freighted celestial arks, 


My sight is dim, — 


The starry fleets of the shoreless night, 


'Twas a foolish whim, — 


Were the only things that surpassed 


But I thought I saw a fiery snake, 


our flight ! 


A little streak of flame just there 


As a swallow chases the summer, we 


Writhing through your tangled 


sped, 


hair!" 


Chasing the days that before us fled. 


The lady smiled, and gathered in 




Her tresses betwixt her breast and 

chin ; 
And thus pursued the delirious theme, 




X. 


While Eoland listened like one in a 




dream : — 


" Then came the calm — we called it 


"So near the shallop tacked and sailed, 


so — 
But the skipper knew, as now we 


That in a desperate moment I hailed 


know, 


The skipper, who leaned against the 


That it was only the hungry Storm, 


helm, 


Crouching back with his awful form, 


Looking the lord of the watery realm. 


The better that he might spring and 


Round went the rudder, — the sail 


light 


went round ; 


Down on the unsuspecting night ! 


And the light barque neared like a 




leaping hound ; 


" The sail was furled, — the hatch 


But, seeing what I had done, I sunk 


made fast, — 


And swooned on the breast of the 


And the friar and I sat close to the 


dear old monk ! 


mast. 




Then came the dark and the roaring 


"Then, half awaking, I felt the mo- 


gale, 


tion 


And we sailed as an autumn leaf 


Beneath me of a summer ocean, 


might sail, 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



209 



Blown by a loud tornado gust — 
And the spray was like a blinding 
dust. 

" Then to the shivering mast we clung 

Still closer — while the friar's tongue 

Over his paternosters ran 

As only a pious friar's can ; 

And my trembling lips, again and 

again, 
Strove vainly to respond 'amen. 

" The hard old skipper laughed out- 
right 
lold u 
fright. 

Till suddenly he cried, ' Land ho !' 

And we saw in the west the crimson 
glow 

Of a light-house — or what we deemed 
was so ! 

" Fiercer and fiercer the loud gale 

came, 
Driving us onward toward the flame. 
The skipper strove to change our 

course, 
Pressing the helm with giant force : — 
Battling a moment 'twixt rudder and 

gale, 
The light ark shuddered like a veer- 
ing sail — 
Then a crash ! — and a curse ! — o'er 

the stern of the barque 
The helm and the helmsman plunged 

into the dark ! 
And the shallop leaped forth to the 

black unknown, 
With the joy of a steed when his 

rider is thrown ! 
Spurning the waves and the wind's 

•control, 
On, on it sped to its direful goal ! 
I hid my face in the old man's breast : 
And then — and then— you know the 

rest ! 

"Oh, Koland, a fearful dream was 

mine — 
Those swooning moments among the 

brine ! 
I saw thee stand in a midnight tower, 
And a beautiful fiend had thee in her 

power. 
I saw her pale lips pressed to thine ; 
I saw ye kneel at an altar-shrine ; 



And then I heard your mingled 

prayer, 
That, like a raven croaking in air, 
Hung black and ominous, but did not 

soar ! 
And then you named her by my name, 
And that hot word clung to my heart 

like flame 
Slung from a torch ! And I heard 

no more ! 

" Oh, Roland, wherefore tremble so? 

Or wherefore stoops your brow so low ? 

Oh. dreary hour! oh, woe is me ! 

If this terrible dream should prove 
to be 

The shadow of mad reality ! 

Look up, and assure me it is not so — 

Or let me die with the sudden blow 

Of the horrible truth ! At thy com- 
mand 

Death shall strike with most welcome 
hand. 

" Oh, woe is me ! Oh, woe is me ! 
Would I were lying under the sea ! 
Or would that dear old friend were 

here 
Who sleeps so low on his briny bier, 
To mount with thee to that sinful 

place 
To meet the demon face to face, 
With exorcism and with prayer 
To scourge her into the utmost air!" 



Was it the sound of a human cry, 
Or wail of a night-bird driven by? 
The lady started and half-way rose, 
With that look the walking sleeper 

shows, — 
With large eyes staring vacantly, 
That seem to listen and not to see. 
Then, with a tongue of pitiful glee, 
She cried, " Roland, if that should 

be 
The voice of my friend so old and 

gray, 
Struggling among the rocks and 

spray! 

" There, did you not hear? that wild 

cry through the roar! 
Hark again! It is his! Wave the 

torch at the door 



18* 



210 THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 


And beacon him in ! Oh, I faint as I 


With its massive lights and shadows 


think, 


thrown 


Perchance how he clings to some ter- 


From the torch in the hands of the 


rible brink !" 


withered crone, 


Even while she spoke, as if at her 


Exalted above her own wild hair, 


will, 


Which streamed like the shreds of a 


The door swung wide, and over the 


banner in air, 


sill 


Tattered, confused, as if torn in the 


The gust and the roar and the spray 


strife 


swept in, 


Of the seventy years' war waged by 


Like a crew of wild pirates, with in- 


Death against Life. 


solent din ; 




And suddenly a group of three 


The lady arose with joy and ran 


Toiled breathlessly after, all dripping 


And fell on the breast of the ancient 


the sea. 


man ; 




And wept such tears as a child might 


There came the monk in his robe of 


shed 


brown, 


On the breast of a parent just saved 


Over his breast his white beard blown 


from the dead. 


And sparkling like a burst of foam ; 


Then from her heart of gratitude 


As if old Neptune should leave his 


She thanked the fisherman, where he 


home, 


stood 


To traverse the dry land up and 


Gazing on her with marvelling face, 


♦down 


As if in some enchanted place 


Disguised in a friar's hood and gown. 


He stood, with uncontrolled sight, 




Chained to a vision of delight. 


And, bearing a lantern, so covered 




with spray 


And then she seized the daughter's 


That the light could scarcely emit a 


hand : 


ray, 


A moment her large eyes softly 


Came the fisherman, whose sturdy 


scanned 


arm 


The modest maid, with look as mild 


Had rescued the pious man from 


As a mother casts on her beauteous 


harm. 


child, 


There, too, was the maiden, the fish- 


Conscious that its face confers 


erman's child, 


A ray of splendor back to hers ; 


With her glowing cheeks and eyelids 


Then drawing her near with a smile 


mild. 


of bliss, 


For many a mile about the coast, 


Pronounced her thanks in a tender 


That father and child were the coun- 


kiss. 


try's boast, 


Suddenly pale grew the maiden's 


And many a sailor on a far-off deck 


lips ' ., , • , 


Remembered Agatha and the wreck. 


And her soul was veiled with a deep 


Fame fondly pictured their struggling 


eclipse ; 


forms 


And she sunk at the old monk's feet 


Battling against the blackest storms. 


with dread, 


Through day or dark they might be 


Begging his blessing to rest on her 


found 


head, 


Braving the tempest in their round ; 


And cried, " Oh, let me see and 


And thus to-night they had met the 


touch 


storm, 


The cross, which we cannot kiss too 


And rescued from death this saintly 


much ! 


form. 


And count one prayer on the beads 




divine !" 


That moment there 


And the old monk murmured-, " My 


Was a living picture bold and rare, 


blessing is thine " 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



211 



"While he laid his hand on her shining 

hair ; 
But it seemed like a fiery gauntlet 

there ! 

Then tracing his girdle and fumbling 

his dress, 
He cried, with a visage of deep dis- 
tress, 
"Oh, woe is me! They are lost in 

the sea — 
That miracle cross and rosary ! 
Torn from my side in those desperate 

shocks 
"When the billows were lifting me over 

the rocks. 
Oh, woe is me ! They were made 

from a tree 

In the garden of holy Geth " 

Here the sea, 
Through the open door, hurled into 

Ihe place 
Such a cloud of spray that the old 

man's face 
Was smothered with brine. The 

white torch hissed, 
And all the room was blind with the 

mist. 

Then thrice the maiden, with look 

distressed, 
Signed the cross on her brow and 

breast, 
And thus to the friar her fear con- 
fessed : 
" I feel in my soul what I cannot say ; 
But something so wicked has blown 

this way, 
That I cannot choose but shudder and 

shrink, 
As if I were dragged to a horrible 

brink. 
A demon is breathing this very air, 
"Which can only be banished afar with 

prayer !' : 

The monk bent soothinglv over her 

form, 
And said, " Be calm, my child, it is 

only the storm ; 
Take cheer, take cheer! 
It is only the loud wind shrieking 

near. 
The wind and the night and the sea 
Are all that be 
Abroad to till the soul with fear." 



The lady, who heard what the maiden 

had said, 
As dizzy with pain, clasped her hands 

to her head ; 
"While her white bosom heaved as 

with heart-broken sighs, 
\ And she turned upon -Kokand her 

pitiful eyes ; 
And he read in her visage of pallid 

dismay 
Far more than her language of sorrow 

couid say. 

. " Oh, the terrible dream ! It is true — 
it is true ! 
And a beautiful demon there waiteth 
for you ! 
I For you ! "Boland, vou ! and I to be 

" left 
j In a poisonous world, of all comfort 
bereft ! ; ' 

i "Though I die it shall vanish!" the 

desperate man cried. 
" No demon shall hold me away from 

thy side !" 
The torch half-way dwindled — the 

crone muttered and moaned — 
i The maid hid her face, and her deep 

bosom groaned ! 
Then seizing the monk, like one in 

despair, 
Eoland led through the hall to the 

shadowy stair ; 
And said, while ascending, " Let thy 

holy words be 
A scourge which shall drive this fiend 

into the sea ! 
Ay, into its own native sea of black 

pain, 
So deep it shall never turn earthward 

again !" 

Then the monk's pious pleasure burst 

to laughter aloud, 
Like a hot gust that blows the red 

leaves in a cloud ; 
And he cried, " By the Pope, whose 

brown livery 1 wear, 
It shall frighten the night with its 

shriek of despair ! 
And when my Pope hears the good 

deed I have done, 
. He will call me to kneel at his great 

crimson throne ; 



212 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



And, knowing the height of all 

priestly desire, 
He will crown this old brow with the 

sacred attire 
Of a cardinal's hat — flaming scarlet 

as tire ! 

"No monarch is half so sublime as 
our Pope! 

You will visit our Rome and behold 
him, I hope ; — 

You will find him enthroned in mag- 
nificent state, — 

His brow overweighed with the bur- 
thensome weight 

Of care for the souls of mankind ! 
You will see 

The great of all nations there bend- 
ing the knee — 

Proud kings and their courts in their 
splendor replete, 

Like an ocean of tlame, surging up 
to his feet ; — 

All so eagerly crowding to press on 
his shoe 

The kiss of allegiance, that the place 
through and through 

Grows oppressively heated — besides, 
as you know, 

Our Rome's a warm climate — exces- 
sively so ! 

11 You will probably go there in car- 
nival time, — 
And see what no pencil, however 

sublime, 
Could picture with justice. If one 

did not know 
That the thing was a sanctioned and 

sanctified show, 
One might deem he had passed into 

Lucifer's regions, 
And think he saw hell pouring out 

its red legions ! 
Indeed, they do snj, that beneath his 

black dome 
The Devil does try to imitate Rome ! 
But this is rank scandal — you see 

what I mean — 
In no place but Rome can you find 

such a scene. 

"And then, oh ! those gorgeous great 

festival nights, 
"When the huge dusky dome is one 

fabric of lights, 



Done with marvellous skill, which 

naught baffles or mars, — 
A temple of flame ! — a mosaic of stars ! 

"Believe me, nowhere are such fire- 
works known, 

As you'll find in our Rome. Quite 
distinct and alone 

They stand ; for the artist who plans 
them is one 

In that line of business not easily 
outdone I" 



XIII. 

They gained the stormy balcony 
Where the light from the chamber 

streamed out to the sea. 
What ailed the friar, that he seemed 

to fail 
And grasped for support on the 

shadowy rail ? 
Why did he shiver and seem so faint ? 
Was it that, like a beautiful saint, 
He beheld the spirit-lady kneeling 
With mild eyes full of tears and 

feeling, 
Clasping on her bosom fair 
The crucifix, which piously there 
Rose and fell on the tide of pra} r er ? 

" I am very old and nigh to death, 
And climbing that stairway has taken 

my breath !" 
He murmured at last: — "Ah me! 

ah me ! 
I am very weak from the abuse of the 

sea ! 
And the chilly wet is piercing me 

through 
As if I had slept in a poisonous dew, 
And awoke with all the horrible pains 
Which death can inflict with chills 

and blains ! 

" It will pass anon : — meantime do 

thou 
Secure the precious moment now — 
Go seize on that polluted cross, 
And into the sea, with a curse and a 

toss, 
Fling it afar, as you would fling 
Some black, dead, offensive thing, 
Hurled away with fierce disdain, 
Never to be reclaimed again ! 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 213 


And then — and then — oh ! this ter- 


Ere the red scourge was lifted, the 


rible chill, 


spirit had flown 


Piercing me like an electric thrill 


With a sigh in the air, and then fol- 


In a cavern of ice! — The punishing 


lowed a groan, 


ire 


And Roland dropt down with the 


Of — our abbot, though wielding great 


weight of a stone. 


lashes of fire, 


And the monk, leaning o'er him, 


"Were easier to bear than this shiver 


breathed into his ear 


intense, 


Thoughts without words, which his 


Like icicles piercing the innermost 


spirit in fear 


sense ! — 


Beheld as black tangible visions at 


Then take thou this girdle, which 


strife, 


grasp like a scourge, 


Struggling which should be foremost 


And wield through the room ! — It 


to poison his life. 


hath power to purge 




The air from such envious spirits as 

this, 
Who would rob even hell of its last 






ray of bliss !" 




Then Roland, with averted head, 


Down in the shadowy hall below, 


Strode in and did as the friar said ; 


The maid and the fisher were turning 


He seized the cross — through the open 


to go, 


door 


When the lady with a mild com- 


It spun to the dark and the wild 


mand, 


uproar ! 


With language sweet and counte- 




nance bland, 


The spirit arose with a shriek of 


Recalled the maiden, and, seizing her 


woe, 


hand, 


Crying, " This is the storm ! It must 


Pressed it to her bosom white 


be so ! 


And cold as a marble tomb at 


The same I foretold thee an hour 


night ; 


ago ! 


And murmured in accents sweet and 


Though thou comest, Roland ! as 


mild, 


one in swift ire, 


" We must be friends — dear friends — 


And armed with those red hissing 


my child ! 


scourges of fire : 


And in token of this, this little 


Oh ! know, Roland, know that the 


ring, 


fiends of the pit, 


Quite a simple yet sacred thing, 


The Arachnes of woe, are all weaving 


1 place on your finger. It is, you 


their wit 


see, 


In webs to ensnare thee ! Already 


The emblem of icisdom and eternity ; 


thy will 


And a svmbol of what our love must 


Is tangled, confused in the threads of 


be— 


"their skill : 


Wise, watchful, unending — that here- 


Ere thou strike I depart — yet again 


after we, 


and again 


Even in a future clime, 


My hand shall be laid on thy fore- 


May look backward to the realms of 


head of pain. 


time, 


And when thou hast passed through 


And say it was upon that night 


this fiery test, 


When the heavens were black and the 


When reason and calm have re-en- 


seas were white, 


tered thy breast. 


We plighted the faith that shall never 


Again will I sit by thy side, and renew 


grow cold, 


The chain which the demons have 


And linked our two souls with this 


sundered in two." 


serpent of gold!'-' 



214 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



PART SECOND. 



Wandering over the summer plain, 
Like one gone, for love, insane, 
And gathering through field and lane 
Those wild blooms whose breath is 

bane, 
Passed Agatha, her golden hair 
More golden in the noonday air, 
Fluttering free from the wonted braid 
"Which her hand no longer made; 
But twined with such wild vines and 

weeds 
As the rank marsh and woodland 

breeds : 
And, like pale Autumn when she 

grieves, 
Her brow was bound with crimson 

leaves 
Plucked from the woodbine, and her 

breast 
In a scarf of withered vines was drest'j 
Her cheeks were white, her eyes were 

bright, 
And full of supernatural light. 

Oh, Heaven ! it is a sight to make 
The heart of the stoutest stoic ache, 
To see a maid so young and fair 
Decked in the garments of despair ! 
Like a statued sorrow, overrun 
With garlands yellowing in the sun. 

And thus as she gathered the leaves 

and flowers 
Pit only to deck the forbidden bowers 
Wherein some pale enchantress fiend 
In noxious odors is veiled and screened, 
She murmured her fancies as they 

came 
Out of her brain like wings of flame : — 

" They aro gone, all the blooms by 
the wild April strown 
In the pathway of May ; 
For the passionate breath of the Sum- 
mer has blown 
Their leaves to decay. 

" And the flowers of childhood must 
wither and fall, 
And pine unto death, 
When the summer of passion breathes 
over them all 
Its feverish breath. 



"Where the violets out from the 
green hedges stole, 

Unnoticed to shine, 
The poppy is waving its fiery bowl, 

A bowl of red wine. 

" These goblets of crimson, these 

beakers of sleep, 

Each a chalice of flame, 

I will pluck for my lady, her soul 

they shall steep 

In desires without name. 

" And the berries that burn on the 
poisonous vine, 
Like embers blown red, 
I will gather and string, and gayly 
entwine 
Eound her beautiful head. 

"Prom this wild ivy-climber, that 
strangles the tree 
And robs it of green, 
I will weave for my lady a garland, 
and she 
Shall le crowned like a queen. 

" Once I knew where to find the most 

beautiful blooms 

When the year was at noon. 

Those delicate spirits called out of 

their tombs 

By the trumpet of June : — 

" Now the daisies and buttercups fade 
at my touch — 
And even the sweet-brier, 
That wild parent of roses my heart 

loved so much, 
Now wilts in my hand as if held in 
the clutch 
Of fingers of fire. 

" Oh, this beautiful ring ! and this 
gem in its head 
So scarlet and bright ! 
I feel a soft warmth through my 
quick pulses shed 
With a sense of delight ! 
Like a spark caught from Mars, as 
lovely and red 
It burns in the night ! 

" Since I knew the fair donor, a won- 
derful change 
Has mantled the earth : 




THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



They are gone, all the blooms by the, wild April stroma in the pathway of May 
For the passionate brealli of the Summer lias blown their leaves to decay." 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



215 



The summer goes by, and no longer I 
range 
Through its bowers of mirth. 

" The birds have grown hateful that 
sing in the light ; 
No longer I hark 
To any save those which talk madness 
all night 
To the fiery-eyed dark ! 

"Thou gem, let me press thee again 
and again 
"With a passionate kiss ! 
Oh ! a pleasure inflames me that al- 
most is pain, 
The pain of pure bliss !" 



Likk a shell among the rocks, 
A tempest-stranded nautilus, 
Wrecked but not ruined by the 

shocks — 
Lifted and lodged from danger — thus 
The dainty barque was found, 
Sitting upright, safe and sound, 
Like a vessel on the stocks, 
"Waiting but to feel 
The loosening hammers at her keel 
To launch upon the sea 
And leap away to liberty, 
Like a captured swan set free. 

Already there were toiling men 
Laboring hard at the spars and ropes ; 
And on the cliff, with anxious ken, 
Gazing with mingled fears and hopes, 
Stood Roland, with the lady's form 
Languidly leaning on his arm. 

There, too, with his beard and hair 
Swaying to the summer air, 
Stood the monk with mutterings low, 
That like the billows' mystical speech, 
Hissing, murmuring up the beach, 
Were poured in such a Babel flow 
None knew if they were prayers or 

no — 
Save the lady, who ever and anon 
Responded till the monk was done. 

Still laboring at the ropes and spars, 
Yo-heaving, like a group of tars, 



Toiled the men ; but the firm-set 

keel 
Clung to the rock like magnet to 

steel. 
Whereat the monk, as if in wrath. 
Hurried down the zigzag path. 
In the breeze his white beard shook, 
Like the foam of a mountain brogk. 
He laid his shoulder against the keel, 
At once she began to stagger and reel. 
"Again!" he cried, "and all to- 
gether !" 
And, like a steed that has broken its 

tether, 
Away she sped with a bound and a 

quiver, 
Making the cloven water shiver 
With the sudden blow ! And then 

she wheeled, 
Restively pawing the watery field, 
Angered to feel the clinging check 
Of the shoreward cable about her 

neck. 

The sea, to one of its slumberous 

calms, 
Now sunk as it never would waken 

more : 
Its breakers were only as flocks of 

lambs 
Bleating and gambolling along the 

shore, 
Where of late the storm-lion insane 
Had shaken abroad his tumultuous 

mane, 
Frightening the land with his rage 

and his roar. 
Round the headland to a little bay 
They led the shallop and drew it to 

land, 
Till at the golden beach it lay 
With its keel on the smooth wet 

sand. 

How haughtily the gilded prow 
Lifted its yawning, dragon head ! 
And backward — shaping the graceful 

bow — 
The dragon's flying wings were 

spread ; 
Where its curious name, 
In letters of flame, 
Burned in ciphers of golden red : 
Lo ! there she stood, as fresh and 

stanch 
And bright as at her birthday launch. 



216 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



in. 

Out of the great commercial town, 
Summoned by the barque's renown, 
Came the masters and merchants 

down, 
And crowded the beach ; 
While with gesture and speech, 
"With eyes of wide wonder and looks 

of delight, 
They declared such a sight 
In the waters of Christendom never 

was known. 

The very dragon seemed to feel 

A tremor of pleasure that thrilled to 

the keel ; 
And like a lady fair and proud, 
Flattered by praises breathed too 

loud, 
The shallop withdrew — so it seemed 

to the crowd — 
And somewhat stiffly its acknowl- 
edgment bowed. 
But perchance it was only the swell 
Of the waters that under her rose and 
fell. 

And there were builders, with rule 

and line, 
Measuring its breadth and length, 
Gathering its secret of grace and 

strength ; 
While, sitting on the sand, 
With accurate and dexterous hand, 
An artist secured the fair design. 

Singing a scrap of maniac song, 
Agatha pressed through the wonder- 
ing throng, 
Bedecked in garlands of strange 

device, 
As if for a heathen sacrifice: 
She scattered blossoms from her hand 
Around the keel where it pressed the 

sand, 
Until it seemed to be wading through 
A flowery foam of various hue, 
And, singing still, began to deck 
The dragon's curved and haughty 

neck, 
Slipping over the glittering head 
A garland of yellow, and blue, and 

red ; 
And then withdrew a space, to admire 
The beautiful collar of floral fire. 



When the fisherman saw his child, 
And heard her voice so strange and 

wild, 
Over his visage scarred and tanned 
The trouble spread. Then he knelt 

on the sand, 
And, hiding his face in his sunburnt 

hand, 
He sobbed aloud, while the tears of 

pai n 
Through his fingers trickled plain, 
And dropt on the thirsty ground like 

rain. 

Along the beach his forsaken net 
Lay weltering in the briny wet, 
Where the scaly things in their de- 
spair 
Were struggling in their tangled 

snare, 
Flashing their silvery sides in air. 
Around the shore in the sunshine 

bright, 
Like webs of those invisible looms 
Whose noiseless shuttles are plied at 

night 
Among the briers and garden blooms, 
Innumerable nets were spread 
On stake and fence, and over the head 
Of many a low marsh-willow, to 

dry — 
The delight, until now, of the fisher- 
man's eye : 
For each, he thought, ere the season 

was o'er, 
With a miraculous draught would 

come to shore, 
And thereby enable him proudly to 

P a 3 T 
His daughter's dower on her wed- 
ding-day. 

But, alas ! the wary Fates had cast 
Their unseen net in the river of Life; 
And all his hopes, the best and last, 
Were dragged to land with a fruitless 

strife, 
To pine on the sand without relief, 
And die on the sunless shores of grief. 



Down from the height, 

With steps as light 

As a party for a bridal bedight, 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



217 



The lady and the monk were seen 

Gliding'through the pathwaj' green, 

"While, with uneasy tread 

And drooping head, 

"With one arm at the lady's zone, 

And one on the friar's shoulder 

thrown, 
Pale Roland walked between. 
They seemed, to a gazer far away, 
Like a happy group in the fields of 

May. 

Out of the little belfry near, 

A bell with accents loud and clear 

Poured its pious peal abroad, 

To turn the thoughts of men to 

God. 
Par and wide through the valley 

round 
Sailed the silver wings of sound, — 
Like a flock of doves rung out, 
"Wheeling joyfully about, 
Flashing from their pinions white 
A sense of quiet and delight. 

The lady, as before a shrine 
Suddenly called to thoughts divine, 
Dropt upon her knees straightway, 
With hanging head that seemed to 

pray. 
And as one who stumbles with a curse 

and a groan, 
The monk fell in the pathway 

prone, 
And lay, like a statue overthrown ; 
Muttering harshly to the air 
Something that passed for a hurried 

prayer. 
And when the bell was done, he 

rose 
lied in the face as a furnace glows — 
And cried, " Now, hang that sac- 
ristan ! 
"What pious crank has got into the 

man, 
Thus to be ringing a vesper tune 
In the very middle of afternoon? 
It takes one down so unawares 
That one can scarcely remember his 



prayers 



And, besides, we have an old tra- 
dition, 

Which may be merely superstition, 

That when one kneels and forgets his 
prayer, 

The Devil is also kneeling there!" 



The crowd gave way as the party 

neared : 
And much they marvelled at the 

friar's beard, 
Hanging so long with crispy flow, 
Like a winter hemlock's barb of snow. 
But when with wondering eyes they 

saw 
The lady, they held their breath with 

awe, 
Transfixed and speechless with the 

sense 
Of beauty's rare magnificence. 
All bared their brows as she passed 

between, 
Bowing like subjects to a queen. 
The monk straightway regained his 

mood, 
And blessed the courteous multitude ; 
For he thought such deference alone 

could be 
Paid to his age and piety. 

When the lady beheld the maid 
In her tawdry veil of flowers arrayed, 
She pressed her with a warm embrace ; 
And, smoothing the wild locks from 

her face, 
Printed a kiss upon her brow, 
Which brought to her forehead the 

crimson glow, 
As if smitten by the sudden blow 
Of a fiery hand ! Then said, in ac- 
cents gay, 
"Come, my sweet friend, come 

away, — 
You must go with us to-day. 
Under the shadowy sail we'll sit, 
While our fairy barque shall flit 
Like a swallow that stoops to lave 
Its burnished bosom in the wave, 
Just tipping with its airy breast 
The enamored billow's eager crest !" 

Straightway, without more remark, 
The jubilant party gained the barque. 
Then the monk came to the bow, 
And, overleaning the dragon prow, 
A moment anxiously scanned the 

crowd, 
And cried in a voice of mirth aloud, 
" Who is there here so loves the sea 
That he will bear us company ? 
One who knows the billowy realm, 
To trim the sail and to set the 

helm ? 



19 



218 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



Who will man our little ship 
For a three-hours' pleasure-trip?" 

Up stepped the fisherman ; but ere 
His feet had touched the slanting 

plank, 
He staggered back, and shuddering 

sank, 
Like one who swoons with sudden 

fear ! 
Then, shouldering his way till he 

gained the sand, 

itbered 

tanned, 

Holding a piece of a helm in his hand, 
And twitching his waistband with 

swaggering air, 
Cried, " Avast there, my hearty ! 
"While I'm of your party, 
You'll scarcely be wanting these land- 
lubbers there ! 
Oh, ho! I'll be bound 
That you thought I was drowned, 
Because I plunged overboard into the 

dark ! 
But with this stout piece of helm, 
"What sea could o'erwhelm 
A sailor who fears neither billow nor 

shark ?— 
"Who on a fragment of wreck 
Sits as safe as on deck, 
And brings it to shore like a well- 
guided barque ?" 
The lady laughed with joy insane 
W T hen she beheld the skipper again. 
With a bound and a leap, he cleared 

the side, 
And strode the deck with his former 

pride : 
Once more he leaned against the helm, 
Once more he was lord of the watery 

realm ! 



The cable was loosed — the barque was 

free, 
And like a white sea-bird, it flew to 

the sea. 
Of all the shapes that swim 
Through the ether blue and dim, 
Or over the swinging ocean skim, 
"With their lifted plumes for sails 
Set before the summer gales — 
Or on enchanted lakes the swan, — 
Or the swift wind-footed fawn, 



None might with that fairy barque 

compare, 
Less in the water than in the air, 
As she sped from shore through a 

track of foam, 
"With the sudden joy and speed 
Of the carrier-bird when its wings are 

freed 
And it darts from its alien tower for 

home ! 
Flying away with its white sail full, 
It doubled the headland like a gull, 
That, careening suddenly, seems to dip 
In the flashing brine its white wing's 

tip. 
Then up and down the coast it bore — 
In and out, as it would explore 
The hundred inlets of the shore! 

"With all her garments fluttering: wild, 
On the deck the fisherman's child 
Stood by the lady, who proudly sat 
On a little throne — where an Indian 

mat 
Mantled the floor, like a flowery moss 
Where Mab and her fairies gambol 

and toss, 
And covered with figures of strange 

device, 
And scented with odors of orient spice, 
Which rose like an incense heavy 

and sweet 
When the lady stirred her delicate 

feet. • 
The maiden stood robbing her own 

bright hair 
To garland the lady's locks less fair : 
The scarlet wreath seemed a brighter 

red 
As it gilded the braids of that darker 

head, — 
And the poisonous berries livelier 

shone, 
Like crimson embers newly blown. 
It seemed a chaplet fit for Fame 
To bind on the brazen brow of Shame, 
The guerdon of deeds which have no 

name ! — 
Like Evening wreathed with sunset 

flame, 
The lady sat ; and in her eyes, 
Like shadows which the day defies, 
Nursed by the darkness, there seemed 

to rise 
Thoughts which on the black wings fly 
Of sin-engendered mystery ! 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



211) 



Still humming a scrap of maniac tune, 
The maiden stood, like frenzied May, 
At the close of her lust sweet day 
Casting all her blossoms away 
Into the burning lap of June! 
Stripping herself of every flower, 
She shed them all, a fiery shower, 
Over the lady, till she was as bright 
As a statue decked with lamps at 

night, — 
Those little lamps of various hue, 
Scarlet, purple, green, and blue, 
Which in myriads star the dark 
In a royal festive park. 

Many a venomous brier and burr 
Among the rest she gave to her : — 
There were slips of hemlock, tips of fir, 
Mingled with leaves of juniper; 
Monkshood flower and mandragore, 
Henbane rank and hellebore, 
And nightshade breathing deadly 

malice ; 
And there was the foxglove's purple 

chalice 
Full of bane ; but which, 'tis said, 
Hath power to thrill and move the 

dead. 
And there, like goblets brimming 

red 
Stolen from a demon's palace, 
Shone the poppies, flaming bright; 
And those which had a withered 

look 
At the lady's touch fresh vigor took, 
As if it did their lives renew 
With a taste of their own noxious 

dew ; 
Even as stars that wilt in the light 
Revive again in the lap of Night, — 
Thus each, like Mars, refreshed with 

tire, 
Flamed where they lay ; while high 

and higher, 
Heaving with a strange desire, 
The lady's breast 'gan swell ; and she 
Kissed the maid with unwonted 

glee, — 
The maid who, without a blossom left, 
Looked scarce less lovely thus be- 
reft,— 
While the other shone as gorgeous 

and gay 
As if she were decked for a queen of 

May 
In a fiery tropic far away ! 



Low at her feet pale Roland sat, 
Gazing up in her radiant face ; 
And said, " In such a time and place 
How sweet were song, did thy voice 

but grace 
The air with melody !" Whereat 
The crowned lady smiled, and sent 
Her glance to a little instrument 
Which a crimson cord made fast 
Up at the side of the polished mast ; 
And without further sign or com- 
mand, 
Roland placed it in her hand. 

It was a curious instrument, 
A kind of Persian mandolin, 
Found perchance in an Arab's tent, 
With every manner of gem besprent, 
And wrought with all the tracery 
Which Eastern art is cunning in : 
The body was ribbed like a shell of 

the sea, 
Yet black and burnished as ebony ; 
The graceful neck was long and thin, 
Where the cords ran up" to golden 

keys ; 
And it looked as it had only been 
Waked to mysterious melodies, 
On phantom iakes and enchanted seas, 
Flashing to fingers weird and wan, 
In the minstrel ages lost and gone. 

Waiting to hear the wakened lute, 
The very air and the sea hung mute ; 
And the maiden, breathless with 

listening desire, 
Crouched silently down at the side of 

the friar. 
The lady's lingers, like swift wings, 
Over the flashing cordage stirred, 
Till music, like an answering bird, 
Suddenly leaped from out the strings. 
Round and round the cadence flew, 
Sailing aloft and dropping low, 
Now soaring with the wild sea-mew, 
Flushing its breast in the sunset glow, 
Then slowly dropping down the air, 
Wailing with a wild despair. 
Down and down, 
Till it seemed to drown, 
With wide pinions on the brine, 
Weltering with no living sign, 
Till the listener's pitying eye 
Wept that so fair a thing should die. 



220 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



Then with malicious laughter loud, 
Jeering the sighing hearer's grief, 
In a moment wild and brief, 
Filling the air with mockery, 
It leapt to the sky and pierced the 

cloud, 
Soaring and soaring, till it seemed to be 
Climbing to the airy throne 
Where the Thunder sits alone. 

Roland listened, confused, amazed, 
While an unknown frenzy thrilled 

his heart ; 
And Agatha on the lady gazed 
"With steadfast eyes and lips apart ; 
And there sat the friar smoothing his 

beard, 
As into the maiden's eyes he peered 
"With a sidelong sinister glance ; 
While she, as one in a charmed trance, 
Bending forward, could only see 
Roland leaning on the lady's knee, 
"With pale, bewildered countenance, 
Gazing up in her face, which beamed 
As if a torchlight on it gleamed ; 
And flushed as with an orient wine, 
"Where passion's swift and fitful flame 
On the breath of music went and came 
Like a gusty blaze on a heathen shrine. 

" 'Tis a sight to make a graybeard 

feel," 
Exclaimed the monk, "his old heart 

reel, 
E'en though it beats in the breast of 

a friar ! 
Old age is a rust which may conceal ; 
But under it there is the tempered 

steel 
Holding its latent spark of fire. 

" See how he looks in the lady's face, 
And how her dark eyes gloat on him ! 
In each other's souls they gaze, and 

trace 
Thoughts which to us are vague and 

dim. 

" Ah me ! it recalls that hour divine, 
In a palace garden at day's decline, 
"When a youth beneath a Sicilian vine 
Sat with a lady, and she was crowned 
With scarlet flowers and leaves em- 
browned, 
Even as they had been seared to death 
In the hot sirocco of passion's breath ! 



Oh, how she played ! The hours were 

drowned 
In goblets of music, and love, and 

wine ! 
But, well-a-day ! — for that same sin 
The youth became a Capuchin I" 



VII. 

Every word of the garrulous monk 
Into the maiden's sad heart sunk, 
With a dreary plunge and spasm 
Sinking through the aching chasm, 
As desperate shapes of agony 
Leap from a burning ship at sea ! 
And as she gazed on the lovers there, 
Every hope in her breast of despair — 
Hopes which until now unknown 
Had thronged her heart — with a sigh 

and a groan 
Dropt away through the dusky waves 
Low and lower to their briny graves, 
W T ith downward face and wide-spread 

hair ! 
Was it Love — or was it Hate — 
The hate of bitter Jealousy — 
Or conscious of being desolate — 
Or was it the combined three 
That thrilled the maiden suddenly, 
Like variant winds that smite and 

wake 
The waters of a summer lake ? 

" See !" said the lady with a glance 

of glee, 
" How the dear child looks at us ! 
Why stares she so ? Why breathes 

she thus ? 
As if her heart were parching to dust 
In a roaring and raging furnace-gust ! 
Ah, Roland, it is plain to see 
This is all for the love of thee ! 

" Oh, it is a pity and shame 
To see a young heart thus consumed — . 
Even though it burns self-doomed 
In an unrequited flame!" 

Thus speaking, the lady, with looks 

of pity, 
Woke the prelude of a strange wild 

ditty ; 
Touching the lute with a gentler 

sweep, 
She poured from her bosom, full and 

deep, 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



221 



A burst of song that rose and fell 
With a heavy and heated and stifling 

swell, 
As fanned from a tropical garden in 

bloom 
By the sultry wings of a far simoom ! 

" A princess dwelt beneath the sea, 
In a palace of coral and pearl ; — 
Her liquid chambers wide and free 
Were lined with soft green tapestry, 
Where a thousand suitors bent the 
knee ; 
But her lip wore a scornful curl. 

" There day by day she seemed to pine, 

In her palace of coral and pearl ; — 

Thronging the halls of the crystal 

brine, 
In vain they came in a flattering line, 
With the wealth of every Indian 
mine, 
King, Prince, and Duke, and Earl. 



But her heart was wandering far 
palace of coral and 



away 
From her 
pearl ; 

Seeking the realm of the upper day, 
Sighing as April sighs for May, 
Through her emerald roof she saw 
the ray, 
Like a flag at morn, unfurl. 

" For she, like many a princess before, 

In her palace of coral and pearl, 
Had dreamed of one on a foreign 

shore, 
The only one her soul could adore, 
And thither her thoughts went more 
and more, 
Till her weary brain 'gan whirl ! 

" ' I pine,' she cried, ' alone, alone !' 

In her palace of coral and pearl : — 
' I pine and peri 



h where hope is none ! 
ilimr with the sun, 
my 



W ould I were 
Would that the home of 
were won, 
Though he spurned 
churl 1 



love 
me like a 



" ' But like a dull sea-weed I cling 

To this palace of coral and pearl ! — 
Though round me the crystal alcoves 
ring 



With praises my siren subjects sing, 
Yet hopeless I pine as he were a king 
And I a peasant-girl !' " 



Sh( 



ere the 
like 



sound had 
a rattlimr 



spar and 



ceased ; but 

passed, 
The skipper's voice, 

blast 
Blown through empty 

shroud, 
Announcing the tempest-bearing 

cloud, 
Took up the strain, while he pressed 

the helm, 
Still looking the lord of the watery 

realm ; 
And, as he sung, the instrument 
Its wild accompanying cadence lent : — 

" A monarch reigned beneath the sea 
On the wreck of a myriad thrones, — 
The collected ruins of Tyranny, 
Shattered by the hand of Destiny, 
And scattered abroad with maniac 
glee, 
Like a gibbeted pirate's bones. 

" Alone, supreme, he reigned apart, 
On the throne of a myriad 

thrones, — 
Where sitting close to the world's red 

heart, 
Which pulsed swift heat through his 

ocean mart, 
He could hear each heavy throe and 

start, 
As she heaved her earthquake 

groans. 

" He gazed through the shadow} 7 deep 
which shields 
His throne of a myriad thrones, — 
And saw the many variant keels 
Driving over the watery fields, 
Some with thunderous and flashing 
wheels 
Linking the remotest zones. 

" Oft, like an eagle that swoops in air, 

He saw from his throne of thrones, 

The winged anchors with eager stare 

Leap midway down to the ocean's 

lair — 
While hanging plummets gazed in 
despair 
At the unreached sands and stones I 



19* 



222 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



" Along his realm lie mountainous 

bulks, 
The tribute to his throne of 

thrones, — 
The merchant's and the pirate's 

hulks — 
And where the ghost of the slaver 

skulks, 
Counting his cargo, — then swears and 

sulks 
Among the manacled bones ! 

" His navy numbers many a barque 
The pride of his throne of thrones : — 

Golden by day and fiery by dark, 

Each cleaves his pathway like a shark ! 

But his favorite barge is a dragon-ark, 
The fairest ship he owns ! 

" The voice of that princess beneath 
the sea 
Keached to his throne of thrones ; — 
Then he leaped in his barge right 

gallantly — 
And cried, ' My child, come sail with 

me, 
"We will flash to sunward far and free, 
Till love for thy grief atones !' '*' 

The skipper ceased. 'Twas but a lull 
In the gale of song ! With bosom full 
As some gigantic organ-bellows, 
"Worked by the hands of officious fel- 
lows, 
While the priest at the altar white 
Is slowly chanting a sacred rite, 
The monk burst forth with a gusty 

roar, 
That seemed to echo along the shore: — 

"An abbot dwelt beneath the sea 

In a cloister of shell and w T eed ; — 
Its walls of curious masonry 
Were built by the ocean peasantry, 
Those merman slaves, whose supple 
knee 
Loves best a mysterious creed. 

"And he was so virtuous, the story 

runs, 
In his cloister of shell and weed — 
That the pious mermen, fathers and 

sons, 
Their daughters and sisters, the fairest 

ones, 
Brought to his charge, till a thousand 

nuns 
Chanted his mystical creed. 



"And he had control of a thousand 

friars, 
In his cloister of shell and weed ; — 
He taught them to chasten all worldly 

desires, 
To smother with prayer all carnal 

fires ; — 
Not to be drunkards, and not to be 

liars, 
Or gluttons of boundless greed! 

" And warned them, — but this was a 
slander base, — 
In his cloister of shell and weed, — 
Not to be like that earthly race 
Who had brought the system into 

disgrace, 
Till the Devil himself grew red in 
the face 
At sins he had never decreed ! 

" This abbot heard, through the sedgy 

grate 
Of his cloister of shell and weed, 
The woful princess bewailing her 

fate, 
Then saw the approaching barge of 

state — 
And, closing his missal and locking 

his gate, 
He leaped aboard with speed. 

" A scion of Church and State was 
he, 
In his cloister of shell and weed, — 
And well he knew if a wedding should 

be, 
That he, as chief prelate under the sea , 
Must be there to perform the solemn 
decree, 
To sic:n and to seal the deed !" 



While the songs were sung, each 

passing breath 
Seemed breathed from the feverish 

breast of Death ; 
All the air which had heard the tune 
Hung sultry and heavy and dead, 
Pulsed through and through with 

flushes of red, 
And hot as a broad, unshielded noon 
In a fiery clime at the end of June. 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



223 



In the purple sky, an hour too soon, 
Like a wedding-barque await 
At a Venetian palace gate, 
Floated the empty crescent moon, 
Moored at a crimson cloud, — a barge 

of state 
In the sunset's broad lagoon. 
But to Agatha that cloud 
Seemed like a world consuming with 

fire — 
Whereon the avenging sun had 

breathed his ire ! 
And the moon was only a poor corpse 

in a shroud 
Which had been shot from a barque 

forlorn 
Into the tranquil sea at morn, 
That rose at eve a ghastly sight, 
To blanch the mariner's cheek with 

fright ! 

Incongruous fancies, a maniac crowd, 
Leaped through her brain, 'and 

shrieked aloud ; 
While, as to a blighting gust 
Of red ashes and dust, 
With a desperate wail her sad soul 

bowed. 
And when with dry, hot eyes she 

saw — 
Each throbbing like a burning heart — 
The glowing lady lean and draw 
Holand close to her heaving side, 
And, smoothing his floating locks 

apart, 
With looks of mingled passion and 

pride, 
Press on his brow a heated kiss, — 
Her heart, as one in a nightmare 

dream, 
Striving with fruitless effort to scream, 
Seemed plunging down a black abyss. 

But when the lady, with sidelong eyes 
Half veiled in mocking hate's 

eclipse, — 
A look which pitied, yet seemed to 

despise — 
Glanced at the maiden's face of 

despair, 
And, bending down and down with 

triumphant air, 
Set the hot seal of her love on his 

lips — 
There was more than a frenzied soul 

could bear I 



A sudden shriek — wild, sharp, and 

shrill ! 
A plunge ! — a gurgle I — a widening 

thrill 
Rippling the water ! And all was still ! 



Oh, 



lady, 



"By 

Then 



see!" cried the 
' Roland, behold ! 
She has leapt in the sea ! 
She is drowned in the sea ! 
! And it is all for the love of thee! 
I Her heart was so warm, and your 
blood was so cold !" 
Heaven!" he cried, "it shall 
not be !" 

another plunge and another 
thrill 
Rippled the wave ; and a voice as 

shrill 
As ever a fiend could shout in glee, 
Cried, " Adieu ! adieu ! 
Till we meet anew 

In our palace of splendor far under 
the sea !" 

And all the air, the moment after, 
Was filled with wild demoniac 

laughter — 
! And like swift hounds in pursuit of 

a wolf, 
| Sudden flaws from the leash of the gale 
Leapt upon the straining sail, 
And chased it over the flashing gulf. 
Away and away, with a murderous 

flight, 
Sped the barque, — away and away ! 
Doubling the headland' into the bay, 
Like a red-handed homicide flying 

from sifijht ! 



IX. 

The toil, the danger and despair 

Struggling with hope in that brief 
moment there, 

May not be chronicled or said ; 

Or how it seemed from ocean's 
shadowy bed 

That demon shapes leapt up, with 
murderous hands, 

Striving to pluck the desperate swim- 
mer down, 

That with his burden he might sink 
and drown, 

And lie supine upon thecharncl sands. 



224 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 



But still he labored ; — and a form 

divine, 
Such as an angel clothed in sunshine 

hath, 
Glimmered before him, walking on 

the brine — 
Slow leading shoreward in a golden 

path. 
And well he knew 'twas that sweet 

pitying sprite 
Which he had driven into the howl- 
ing night ! 
But now her pale lips seemed to move 
Forgivingly with smiles of love, — 
Until his heart with hope beat high 

and warm, 
And a new impulse nerved his 



Anon his feet were on the slanting 
sands, 

"Where slow he toiled with the in- 
creasing weight, 

"Which, like a sea-weed stranded, des- 
olate, 

Hung o'er his arm with dripping hair 
and hands. 

And now wild groups came down the 
sloping lands, 

Looming gigantic 'gainst the level 
sun, 

And their long shadows to the beach 
did run 

Precipitate with uncontrolled woe — 

Outstripping those who followed ! 
Till anon 

Around the melancholy show 

The people gathered, and with faces 
wan 

Told their great grief as only 
mourners can 

"Who loved the thing they mourn from 
the hour its life began ! 

Foremost her sire, a wild disconsolate 

man, 
Mingled with the wet grief of the sea 
The tears of his tempest agony, 
"Which like baptismal waters ran 
Over her breathless breast, as from 

the hand 
Of the pale priestess Sorrow flung, 
Naming her one of that most enviable 

band 
"Whom loving Death hath ta'en into 

his land 



"While beautiful and young — 
Into the land of May, forever green, 
To be crowned with virgin flowers 
immortally a queen. 

"With shreds of white hair sorrowing 

in the breeze, 
The village priest leant o'er her with 

a prayer ; 
And then he said, " Let loving arms 

of care 
Take up this mournful victim of the 

seas, 
And bear her to the church, and on a 

bier 
Lay her before the sacred altar-shrine, 
"Where the mild Saviour, with His 

eyes divine, 
Looks peace to grief, and hope to 

those who fear ; 
And as He lifted J aims' child from 

death, 
He may renew even here the life- 
reviving breath." 
And as he bade they bore her ; while 

behind 
Pale Roland followed with bewildered 

mind. 



When they had gained the little 

chapel door, 
And were about to cross the sacred 

sill, 
Their drowned burden breathless as 

before, 

lxious ( 

den thrill, 
The serpent ring her dripping right 

hand bore 
Leap from her linger and as lightning 

pass, 
Flashing between their feet, 
Searing the ground with heat, 
A crooked flame that vanished in the 

grass. 

Then straightway to the maiden's 

cheek 
Flushed up a little dawn of life ; 
And her waking pulses, weary and 

weak, 
In their recovery seemed to speak 
Of the long and maddening strife, 



THE HOUSE BY THE SEA, 



225 



Of the maniac dreams which had 

filled her brain, 
While her heart lay stunned in its 

night of pain. 

And when at the altar-shrine 
They laid her like a corpse supine, 
Scarce noting the life-announcing 

sign, 
Then Eoland fell on his knees, and 

pressed 
Her cold white hands to his aching 

breast : 
And instantly the long-frozen pain 
Which had oppressed and benumbed 

his brain, 
Seemed to melt in a repentant glow, 
And in floods of tears to his eyelids 

flow, 
Till his sad heart felt like an arid plain 
That is drenched with a generous 

summer rain. 

Was it the sunset's parting beam 
Piercing the little window red? 
Or was it the lightning's vivid gleam 
Through the startled twilight shed? 
They only knew a crimson flush, 
Making the sacred shadows blush, 
Shot up the aisle, as if the fiery rays 
Of a meteor-ball had set the air 

ablaze : 
And then a baleful voice 
Drew their eyes to the door away : 
And all could plainly hear it say, 
"Come, Eoland, come! Thou hast 

no choice : 
Thou shalt not, darest not stay : 
The prayer which thou must learn to 

pray 
At another altar must be made, 
And thy vows to another God be 

paid!" 

And, gazing through the door, they 

saw 
The lady and monk beyond the sill ; 
And every breast was filled with awe, 
And every pulse ran chill. 
They stood like travellers in the night, 
Surrounded by a blazing light, 
Who see the eyes of the wolf and pard, 
Fixed with wild and eager desire, 
Insane with hunger, and only de- 
barred 
By a living threshold of circling fire. 

P 



Then Roland cried, " Avaunt ! 
avaunt ! 

Here at this holy altar I swear, 

By my future hopes and my past de- 
spair, 

To fly from the fiends and that lonely 
haunt, 

With pain, and woe, and demons rife ! 

And if once this sweet maid come to 
life, 

To claim her my bride! And in 
token of this, 

I set on her lips this sealing kiss !" 

He spake and bowed — lips touched to 

lips ; 
And as a taper, when the gusty dark 
Has blown its splendor into eclipse, 
W'hile its wick still holds the crimson 

spark, 
Which, touching another taper's rays, 
Instantly stands in the air ablaze, — 
So life, in a swift contagious flame, 
Suddenly illumined the maiden's 

frame ! 

A moment surveying the sacred place, 
Her blue eyes turned, then with 

modest grace 
Gazing up into Roland's face, 
Her sweet tongue said, in its first 

release, 
With words which seemed breathed 

from the lips of peace — 
" The spell is past ! Oh, hour divine ! 
Thou, thou art mine 1 and I am 

thine!" 

And the listening shadows cool and 

gray, 
In the gallery, like a responding 

choir, 

e the 

fire, 

Seemed to the echoing vault to say, 
Softly as at a nuptial shrine — 
" Thou art mine ! and I am thine !" 

And still through the breathless mo- 
ments after, 

Like doves beneath the sheltering 
rafter, 

Along the roof in faint decline, 

The echoes whispered with voices 
fine — 

" Mine and thine ! mine and thine !" 



226 THE HOUSE 


BY THE SEA. 


And now, like a golden trumpet, 


And, climbing the black rocks high 


blown 


and higher, 


To make a glorious victory known, 


They gazed and gazed with aching 


The organ, with its roll divine, 


sight, 


Poured abroad from its thrilling 


Till into the distant realm of night 


tongue 


They saw it pass — a ship on fire I 


"Words the sweetest ever sung — 




" Mine and thine ! mine and thine !" 


Then Eoland, who gazed on the body 




which lay 


And up in the tower the iron bell 


In the path, a loathsome shape of clay, 


Suddenly felt the joyous spell, 


Defiled by a fiend and cast away, 


And flung its accents clear and 


Called to the sturdy sacristan, 


s a y> 


Who came, a shuddering, awe-struck 


As if it were rung on a wedding- 


man, 


day ; 


And bade him with his graveyard 


And like a singer swaying his head 


crew 


To mark the time 


Bear and bury the thing from vieAV. 


Of some happy rhyme, 


But when they strove, with fear and 


Breathing his heart in every line, 


disgust, 


Thus swayed the bell, and swaying 


To raise that form which once had been 


said — 


The temple of Beauty and then of Sin, 


" Mine and thine ! mine and thine !" 


It fell from their hands a mass of 

dust, — 
Like a cavern of sand, so fragile and 

thin 
That a single touch will shatter it 






XI. 


in ; — 




Or like a long-consumed brand, 


The lady standing bej^ond the door, 


Whose form in the ashes seems to 


Like one whose despair can bear no 


stand, 


more, 


From whence the hungry flame has 


Shrieked a fiendish shriek of wrath ; 


fled 


And, with a hollow sepulchral sound, 


And left it a thing devoured and dead, 


Her body fell upon the ground 


Which the lightest touch of the lift- 


And lay a corpse along the path ! 


ing hand 




Shivers to nothing, a shapeless 


And then a shadow, like a cloud 


mass ; — 


On a hissing whirlwind fierce and 


Thus the body fell, and lay on the grass 


loud, 


A crumbled pile at their startled feet, 


Swept seaward, pierced with curses 


As if it had been consumed by the heat 


and shrieks, 


Of that most subtle and fiery fiend 


Which like the lightning's fiery 


Which so long it had fearfully har- 


streaks 


bored and screened I 


Flashed madly through the twilight 
shades, 






Cleaving the air with sulphurous 




blades 1 


Days dawned and set, and year by year 




The bride became more fair and dear; 


Then the people ran to the headland 


And Roland saw with secret delight, 


height 


As her face grew more refined and 


With the" fascination of wonder and 


bright, 


fright, 


How through every feature it seemed 


And saw the little dragon barque 


That the Tight of his long-lost Ida 


Speeding out to the eastern dark, 


beamed ! 


Away and away, as swift and bright 


And by degrees her softening voice 


As a red flamingo's sudden flight. 


Like Ida's made his heart rejoice ; 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 



227 



Until, when the first few years had 

flown, 
He forgot that his early love had died, 
And, walking at his lady's side, 
He called her " Ida," and she replied 
To the name as it had heen her own. 

Never more to that lonely height, 
Where only the wild birds of the sea 
Peopled the gusty balcony, 
He turned his feet; but lived and 

moved 
Among his fellows — revered, beloved ; 
And the world was no more a world 

of blight, 
But a realm of sunshine, warm and 

bright. 



With his brooding grief no longer 

blind, 
This simple truth his soul dis- 
cerned, — 
And well it were for all mankind 
Had they the self-same lesson 

learned, — 
That it is not in the world abroad, 
In the sight of men and the light of 

God, 
That fierce temptations chiefly 

dwell ; 
But in the misanthropic cell, 
Where the selfish passions are all 

enshrined 
And worshipped by one darksome 

mind. 



AVAE POEMS. 



SHERIDAN'S EIDE. 

Up from the South at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder 

bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chief- 
tain's door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, 

and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon's bar ; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
Making the blood of the listener cold, 
As he thought of the stake in that 

fiery fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester 

town, 
A good broad highway leading down ; 
And there, through the flush of the 

morning light, 
A steed as black as the steeds of night 
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, 
As if he knew the terrible need ; 
He stretched away with his utmost 

speed ; 



Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was 

say, 
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, 
thundering South, 

The dust, like smoke from the can- 
non's mouth ; 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster 
and faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of 
disaster. 

The heart of the steed, and the heart 
of the master, 

Were beating like prisoners assault- 
ing their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battle-field 
calls ; 

Every nerve of the charger was 
strained to full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet the road 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
And the landscape sped away behind 
Like an ocean flying before the wind, 
And the steed, like a barque fed with 

furnace ire, 
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 
But lo ! he is nearing his heart's de- 
sire : 



228 



WAR POEMS. 



He is snuffing the smoke of the roar- 
ing fray, 
With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the general saw were 

the groups 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating 

troops. 
What was done? what to do? a 

glance told him both ; 
Then, striking his spurs, with a ter- 
rible oath, 
He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm 

of huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its 

course there, because 
The sight of the master compelled it 

to pause. 
With foam and with dust, the black 

charger was gray ; 
By the flash of his eye, and the red 

nostril's play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to 

say, 
"I have brought you Sheridan all 

the way 
From Winchester, down to save the 



Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on 

high. 
Under the dome of the Union sky, 
The American soldiers' Temple of 

Fame ; 
There with the glorious general's 

name, 
Be it said, in letters both bold and 

bright, 
" Here "is the steed that saved the 

day, 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester, twenty miles 

away !" 

THREE ERAS. 

INSCRIBED TO PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
I. 

THE TREATY ELM.» 

Ere to the honored patriot's mansion 
yonder 
These charmed and emblematic 
relics pass, 



Upon the sacred fragments let me 

ponder, 
While Fancy, to the admiring eye of 

Wonder, 
Withdraws the veil, as in a magian's 

glass. 

I see the "Treaty Elm," and hear 
the rustle 
Of autumn leaves, where come the 
dusky troops, 

In painted robes and plumes, to crowd 
and jostle, — 

A savage scene, save that the peace- 
apostle 
Stands central, and controls the 
untamed groups. 

These are the boughs the forest eagle 
lit on, 
Long ere he perched upon our 
nation's banner ; , 

Beneath their shade I see the gentle 
Briton, 

And hear the contract, binding, 
though unwritten, 
And worded in the plain old scrip- 
tural manner. 

Across the Delaware the sound comes 
faintly, 
And fainter still across the tide of 
Time, 

Though history yet repeats the lan- 
guage quaintly 

That fell from lips of Penn, the calm 
and saintly, 
Speaking of love, the only true 
sublime. 

This is his mission, and his sole voca- 
tion ; 
To hear of this, the savage round 
him presses ; . 

How sweetly falls the beautiful ora- 
tion 

Which bids them hear the marvellous 
revelation 
Of Christian peace through all their 
wildernesses ! 

Not to defraud them of their broad 
possessions 
He comes, or to control their eagle 
pinions, 




SHERIDA N'S RIDE. 



Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas — ' 



THE ALLIANCE. 



229 



But to pledge friendship and its sweet 

relations, 
Truth and forbearance, gentleness and 

patience, 
To all the people of their wild 

dominions. 

"We meet," he said, "upon the 
open highway 
Of broad good will, and honest faith 
and duty ; 

Let love fraternal brighten every by- 
way, 

And peace inviolate be thy way as my 
way, 
Till all the forest blossoms with new 
beauty." 

So spake their friend, and they revered 

his teaching ; 
They said, " We will be true to thee 

and thine." 
And through long seasons toward 

their future reaching 
No act was shown their plighted faith 

impeaching — 
Marring the compact, loving and 

divine. 

O thou, like noble Penn, who truth 
adorest, 
A priest at her great shrine in Free- 
dom's temple, 

While o'er this gift in thoughtful 
mood thou pores t, 

Point to the faithful children of the 
forest, 
And bid the nations learn from 
their example. 



THE ALLIANCE. 

Here is an oaken relic from a barque, 
That speaks of olden scenes and 
ocean mystery, — 
An anchor from the Revolution 

ark, 
Dropt to the present through the twi- 
light dark, 
Linking the troubled periods of our 
history. 



It may be that the sapling of this 

wood, 
Crowned on the coast with vines 

inviting inland, 
Was swaying to the sea-wind's fitful 

mood, 
Learning the rocking motion of the 

flood, 
When roving Norsemen stood agaze 

at Vinland. 



Or, did it feel the westward-sweeping 

gale— 
The wind that still of God and 

freedom hymneth — 
Which landward drove the saintly 

hero's sail, 
Until the sea-tossed pilgrims, worn 

and pale, 
Were landed on the icy rock of 

Plymouth ? 

Where'er it grew, the woodman found 

the oak, 
It knew the teamster and the 

hewer's trestle, 
It felt the hammers, snuffed the 

pitchy smoke, 
Then seaward, like a steed from stall, 

it broke, 
While Salisbury hailed her favorite 

warrior vessel. 

Those were the days wherein we flung 

defiance 
Unto a tyrant monarch and his 

henchmen. 
We asked for friendship, France gave 

her compliance ; 
And, hence, we called our vessel the 

Alliance, 
In honor of the noble-hearted 

Frenchmen. 



Then France was generous France : 

her well-earned fame 
Shed round the world a lustre of 

pure glory. 
No Italy breathed curses on her 

name, 
No Mexico stood pointing at her 

shame 
With feeble fingers, desperate and 

gory. 



20 



230 



WAR POEMS. 



The royal vessel sought her future 

realm, — 
Royal, because her parent oak was 

regal ; 
And sceptred Science shaped her prow 

and helm, 
And crowned Courage, naught could 

overwhelm, 
Breathed in the bosom of that fierce 

sea-eagle. 

The ocean cormorants fled before her 
path ; 
Her wing, descried afar, was fear- 
ful omen ; 
Full oft her desolating vengeance 

hath, 
In the great tempest of her iron wrath , 
Sent a wild shudder through the 
hearts of foemen. 

Hers was the enviable pride to bear 
The unselfish hero's well-beloved 
exemplar, 
A Paladin, whose heart was full of 

prayer 
For freedom's Palestine — his soul was 
there. 
Forever honored be the good knight- 
templar. 

G Gratitude, forget not the ovations 
Due to a noble country's nobler 
scion. 
Let Lafayette, before the gaze of na- 
tions, 
Stand canonized amidst our constel- 
lations, 
Belted with starry fame, like brave 
Orion. 

Old Europe's waters bore her graceful 
keel, 
And heard the rolling of her threat- 
ening thunder ; 

She taught the insolent buccaneer to 
kneel 

And sue for quarter, — taught their 
homes to feel 
A mingled sense of due respect and 
wonder. 

Though she awhile the doubtful Lan- 
dais bore, 
It was her glorious privilege to 
carry 



The pennant of Paul Jones, the com- 
modore, 

The pride and terror of the sea and 
shore. 
And his, the hardy and intrepid 
Barry. 

And when the war was o'er, she laid 
aside 
The latest vestige of the past com- 
motion, 

And to the winds of Commerce, far 
and wide, 

Shook out her sails for other realms 
untried, 
And brought home treasure from 
the farthest ocean. 

There have been doubtful Landais' on 

our deck, — 
The deck of State, — that wellnigh 

brought disaster ; 
But thou, obedient to a nation's 

beck, 
Didst save the flag-ship of the world 

from wreck, 
O noble patriot and unswerving 

master I 

And still thou rul'st this stormy deck 

of State, 
With all thy sea-worn councillors 

in communion ; 
Still, with thy manned and well-tried 

guns in wait, 
Stand by thy charge, O Captain, calm 

and great, 
Beneath the steadfast banner of the 

Union ! 

And when the Southern buccaneer at 
last 
Shall strike her colors, saying, " It 
is over," 

Lash on the prize and raise her jury- 
mast, 

Stop all her leaks, make all her rig- 
ging fast, 
And bring her homeward, a re- 
pentant rover. 

And when anon our battle-flag is 
furled, 
If that no insolent gauntlet lies be- 
fore us, 



THE ATTACK. 



231 



By dastard in the hour of danger 
hurled, 

Then let our ship of commerce sweep 
the world, 
Her deck made musical with Free- 
dom's chorus. 



III. 

THE PIECE OF HALLIARD 

FROM THE FLAG OF THE 

CUMBERLAND. 

This simple cord, hy unknown fingers 
spun, 
Holds history in every slender 
fibre, — 
Telling more baseness in one action 

done, 
And of more heroism, than the sun 
E'er sa\v upon the storied tide of 
Tiber. 

A shred from off the halliards of our 
hope, 
Our battle-banner, seldom lowered 
or baffled ! 
Did he who twined the fellow to that 

rope 
Behold, in his imaginary scope, 
The trembling traitor on his well- 
earned scaffold ? 

He should have seen, methinks, the 

dance of death, 
The traitor's dance in this rebellious 

season, 
While the gaunt wizards on the 

Southern heath, 
Like the foul hags encountered by 

Macbeth, 
"With hell-born charm and chant 

are brewing treason. 

Fierce maledictions, breathed with 
desperate might 
By trodden nations, longing to be 
freemen, 

Shall fall upon them with the wither- 
ing blight 

Of leprous pestilence that walks at 
night, 
Till their own hearts shall curse 
their reigninsr demon. 



THE ATTACK. 

In Hampton Roads, the airs of March 
were bland, 
Peace on the deck, and in the for- 
tress sleeping, 

Till, in the lookout of the Cumber- 
land, 

The sailor, with his well-poised glass 
in hand, 
Descried the iron island downward 
creeping. 

A sudden wonder seized on land and 

bay, 
And tumult, with her train, was 

there to follow ; 
For still the stranger kept its seaward 

way, 
Looking a great leviathan blowing 

spray, 
Seeking with steady course his ocean 

wallow. 

And still it came, and largened on 
the sight ; 
A floating monster; ugly and gi- 
gantic ; 

In shape, a wave, with long and 
shelving height, 

As if a mighty billow, heaved at 
night, 
Should turn to iron in the mid- 
Atlantic. 

Then ship and fortress gazed with 
anxious stare, 
Until the Cumberland's cannon, si- 
lence breaking, 
Thundered its guardian challenge, 

" Who comes there?" 
But, like a rock-flung echo in the air, 
The shot rebounded, no impression 
making. 

Then roared a broadside ; though di- 
rected well, 
On, like a nightmare, moved the 
shape defiant ; 

The tempest of our pounding shot 
and shell, 

Crumbled to harmless nothing, 
thickly fell 
From off the sounding armor of 
the giant ! 



232 



WAR POEMS. 



Unchecked, still onward through the 

storm it broke, 
With beak directed at the vessel's 

centre, 
Then through the constant cloud of 

sulphurous smoke 
Drove, till it struck the warrior's wall 

of oak, 
Making a gateway for the waves to 

enter. 



Struck, and to note the mischief done, 
withdrew, 
And then, with all a murderer's im- 
patience, 

Eusbed on again, crushing her ribs 
anew, 

Cleaving the noble hull wellnigh in 
two, 
And on it sped its fiery impreca- 
tions. 



Swift through the vessel swept the 
drowning swell, 
"With splash, and rush, and guilty 
rise appalling ; 

While sinking cannon rung their own 
loud knell. 

Then cried the traitor, from his sul- 
phurous cell, 
"Do you surrender?" Oh, those 
words were galling. 

How spake our captain to his com- 
rades then ? 
It was a shout from out a soul of 
splendor, 

Echoed from lofty maintop, and 
again 

Between-decks, from the lips of dying 
men, 
11 Sink ! sink, boys, sink ! but never 
say surrender !" 

Down went the ship ! Down, down ; 
but never down 
Her sacred flag to insolent dictator. 
Weep for the patriot heroes, doomed 

to drown ; 
Pledge to the sunken Cumberland's 
renown. 
She sank, thank God ! unsoiled by 
foot of traitor ! 



THE APOSTEOPHE. 

Great ruler, these are simple gifts to 
bring thee, — 
Thee, — doubly great, the land's em- 
bodied will ; 

And simpler still the song I fain 
would sing thee : 

In higher towers let greater poets ring 
thee 
Heroic chimes on Fame's immortal 
hill. 



A decade of the years its flight has 

taken, 
Since I beheld, and pictured with 

my pen, 
How yet the land on ruin's brink 

might waken 
To find her temples rudely seized and 

shaken 
By traitorous demons in the forms 

of men. 



And I foresaw thy coming, — even 
pointed 
The region where the day would 
find its man 
To reconstruct what treason had dis- 
jointed. 
I saw thy brow by Honesty anointed, 
While Wisdom taught thee all her 
noblest plan. . 

Thy natal stars by angels' hands sus- 
pended, 
A holy trine, where Faith, and 
Hope, and Love — 

By these celestial guides art thou at- 
tended, 

Shedding perpetual lustre, calm and 
splendid, 
Around thy path wherever thou 
dost move. 

No earthly lore of any art or science 
Can fiHthe places of these heavenly 
three : 
Faith gives thy soul serene and fixed 

reliance ; 
Hope to the darkest trial bids de- 
fiance ; 
Love tempers all with her sublime 
decree. 



THE OATH. 



233 



'Tis fitting, then, these relics full of 

story, 
Telling ancestral tales of land and 

sea, — 
Each fragment a sublime memento 

mori 
Of heroes mantled in immortal 

glory- 
Should be consigned, great patriot, 

unto thee. 



THE DEFENDERS. 

Our flag on the land, and our flag on 
the ocean, 
An angel of Peace wheresoever it 
goes; 
Nobly sustained by Columbia's de- 
votion, 
The angel of Death it shall be to 
our foes. 
True to its native sky, 
Still shall our eagle fly, 
Casting his sentinel glances afar, 

Though bearing the olive-branch, 
Still in his talons stanch 
Grasping the bolts of the thunders of 
War! 

Hark to the sound ! there's a foe on 
our border, 
A foe striding on to the gulf of his 
doom ; 
Freemen are rising and marching in 
order, 
Leaving the plough and the anvil 
and loom ; 
Rust dims the harvest sheen 
Of scythe and of sickle keen ; 
The axe sleeps in peace by the tree it 
would mar ; 
Veteran and youth are out, 
Swelling the battle-shout, 
Grasping the bolts of the thunders of 
War 1 

Our brave mountain eagles swoop 
from their eyrie : 
Our lithe panthers leap from forest 
and plain ; 
Out of the West flash the flames of 
the prairie ; 
Out of the East roll the waves of 
the main. 
Down from their Northern shores, 
Swift as Niagara pours, 



They march, and their tread wakes 

the earth with its jar, 

Under the stripes and stars, 

Each with the soul of Mars, 

Grasping the bolts of the thunders of 

War! 

Spite of the sword, or assassin's sti- 
letto, 
While throbs a heart in the breast 
of the brave, 
The oak of the North, or the Southern 
palmetto, 
Shall shelter no foe except in the 
grave. 
While the Gulf billow breaks, 
Echoing our Northern lakes, 
And ocean replies unto ocean afar, 
Yield we no inch of land, 
While there's a patriot hand 
Grasping the bolts of the thunders of 
War! 

Rome, July 4, 1861. 



THE OATH. 

Hamlet. — Swear on my sword. 
Ghost (below).— Swear !— Shakspeaee. 

Ye freemen, how long will ye stifle 
The vengeance that justice in- 
spires ? 
With treason how long will ye trifle, 
And shame the proud name of your 
sires ? 
Out, out with the sword and the rifle, 
In defence of your homes and your 
fires. 
The flag of the old Revolution, 

Swear firmly to serve and uphold, 
That no treasonous breath of pollu- 
tion 
Shall tarnish one star on its fold, 
Swear ! 
And, hark, the deep voices replying 
Erom graves where your fathers are 
lying : 

" Swear, oh, swear!" 

In this moment, who hesitates, barters 
The rights which his forefathers 
won, 

He forfeits all claim to the charters 
Transmitted from sire to son. 



20* 



234 



WAR POEMS. 



Kneel, at the graves of our martyrs, 
And swear on your sword and your 
gun ; 
Lay up your great oath on an altar 
As huge and as strong as Stone- 
henge, 
And then, with sword, fire, and halter. 
Sweep down to the field of revenge. 
Swear ! 
And, hark, the deep voices replying 
"From graves where your fathers are 
lying: 
" Swear, oh, swear !" 

By the tombs of your sires and 
brothers, 
The host which the traitors have 
slain ; 
By the tears of your sisters and 
mothers, 
In secret concealing their pain — 
The grief which the heroine smothers, 
Consuming the heart and the brain ; 
By the sigh of the penniless widow ; 
By the sob of her orphans' despair, 
"Where they sit in their sorrowful 
shadow, 
Kneel, kneel, every freeman, and 
swear. 

Swear ! 
And, hark, the deep voices replying 
From graves where your fathers are 
lying : 
" Swear, oh, swear !" 

On mounds, which are wet with the 
weeping, 
"Where a nation has bowed to thesod, 
W T here the noblest of martyrs are 
sleeping, 
Let the winds bear your vengeance 
abroad ; 
And your firm oath be held in the 
keeping 
Of your patriot hearts and your God. 
Over Ellsworth, for whom the first 
tear rose, 
While to Baker and Lyon you look ; 
By Winthrop, a star among heroes ; 
By the blood of our murdered 
McCook, 

Swear ! 

And, hark, the deep voices replying 

From graves where your fathers are 

lying : 

" Swear, oh, swear !" 



THE EAGLE AND VULTURE, 

In Cherbourg Roads the pirate lay 
One morn in June, like a beast at 

bay? 

Feeling secure in the neutral port, 
Under the guns of the Frenchman's 

fort ; 
A thieving vulture ; a coward thing ; 
Sheltered beneath a despot's wing. 

But there outside, in the calm blue 

bay, 
Our ocean eagle, the Kearsarge, lay ; 
Lay at her ease on the Sunday morn, 
Holding the Corsair ship in scorn ; 
With captain and crew^in the might 

of their right, 
Willing to pray, but more eager to 

light. 

Four bells are struck, and this thing 

of night, 
Like a panther, crouching with fierce 

affright, 
Must leap from his cover, and, come 

what may, 
Must fight for his life, or steal away ! 
So, out of the port, with his braggart 

air, 
With flaunting flags, sailed the proud 

Corsair. 

The Cherbourg cliffs were all alive 
With lookers-on, like a swarming 

hive ; 
While, compelled to do what he dared 

not shirk, 
The pirate went to his desperate work ; 
And Europe's tyrants looked on in 

glee, 
As they thought of our Kearsarge 

sunk in the sea. 

But our little barque smiled back at 
them 

A smile of contempt, with that Union 
gem, 

The American banner, far-floating 
and free, 

Proclaiming her champions were out 
on the sea — 

Were out on the sea, and abroad on 
the land, 

Determined to win under God's com- 
mand. 



THE FLAG OF THE CONSTELLATION. 



235 



Down came the vulture ; our eagle 

sat still, 
Waiting to strike with his iron-clad 

bill; 
Convinced by the glow of his glorious 

cause, 
He could crumple his foe in the grasp 

of his claws. 



" Clear the decks," then said Wins- 
low, words measured and slow ; 

" Point the guns, and prepare for the 
terrible blow ; 

And, whatever the fate to ourselves 
may be, 

We will sink in the ocean this pest 
of the sea. 7 ' 



The decks were all cleared, and the 

guns were all manned, 
Awaiting to meet this Atlantic 

brigand ; 
When, lo ! roared a broadside ; the 

ship of the thief 
Was torn, and wept blood in that 

moment of grief. 

Another ! another ! another ! And 
still 

The broadsides went in with a hearty 
good Jvill, 

Till the pirate reeled wildly, as stag- 
gering and drunk, 

And down to his own native regions 
he sunk. 



Down, down, forty fathoms beneath 
the blue wave, 

And the hopes of old Europe lie in 
the same grave ; 

While Freedom, more firm, stands 
upon her own sod, 

And for heroes like Winslow is shout- 
ing, "Thank God!" 



THE FLAG OF THE CONSTEL- 
LATION. 

The stars of the morn 
On our banner borne, 
With the iris of heaven are blended ; 



The hand of our sires 
Fii'st mingled those fires, 

And by us they shall be defended. 
Then hail the true 
Red, White, and Blue, 

The flag of the Constellation ; 
It sails as it sailed, 
By our forefathers hailed, 

O'er battles that made us a nation. 



What hand so bold 

As to strike from its fold 
One star or one stripe of its bright'- 
ning, 

For him be those stars 

Each a fiery Mars, 
And each stripe be as terrible light- 
ning. 

Then hail the true 

Red, White, and Blue, 
The flag of the Constellation ; 

It sails as it sailed, 

By our forefathers hailed, 
O'er battles that made us a nation. 



Its meteor form 

Shall ride the storm 
Till the fiercest of foes surrender ; 

The storm gone by, 

It shall gild the sky, 
A rainbow of peace and of splendor. 

Then hail the true 

Red, White, and Blue, 
The flag of the Constellation ; 

It sails as it sailed, 

By our forefathers hailed, 
O'er battles that made us a nation. 



Peace, peace to the world, 

Is our motto unfurled, 
Though we shun not the field that is 
gory : 

At home or abroad, 

Fearing none but our God, 
We will carve our own pathway to 
glory. 

Then hail the true 

Red, White, and Blue, 
The flag of the Constellation; 

It sails as it sailed, 

By our forefathers hailed, 
O'er battles that made us a nation. 



236 



WAR POEMS. 



THE ROLL OF HONOR. 

DEDICATED TO MAJOR-GENERAL 
ROSECRANS, "WHO INSTITUTED THE 
ORDER OF THAT NAME IN THE 
ARMY OE THE CUMBERLAND. 

Like the lordly Mississippi, we are 

sweeping to the South, 
A mighty Union river, and the Gulf 

shall be its mouth ; 
O'er our front wave floats our banner, 

boys, that leads to glory's goal, 
And at its side, in martial pride, is 

borne the Honor Roll. 
On the Roll of Honor, boys ; on the 

Roll of Honor, boys ; 
Oh, let us see our names shall be on 

the Roll of Honor, boys. 

Like a great wind we drive South- 
ward, with a storm of North- 
ern hail, 

And our banner rides before us, as a 
cloud upon the gale ; 

We will tear from out the rebel's hold 
his stolen stars and bars, 

And fame shall see our names enrolled 
beneath the stripes and stars. 

On the Roll of Honor, boys ; on the 
Roll of Honor, boys ; 

And fame shall see our names will be 
on the Roll of Honor, boys. 

"With this great gale sweeping South- 
ward, daily come the gentle 
airs 

Of our fathers' words of courage, and 
our mothers' constant prayers ; 

"With them our wives and sweet- 
hearts, with a love beyond con- 
trol, 

Are reading in their fancy, boys, the 
names on Honor's roll. 



On the Roll of Honor, boys ; on the 

Roll of Honor, boys ; 
Oh, let them see our names will be on 

the Roll of Honor, boys. 

And when the last armed rebel falls, 

and bites his native dust ; 
When waves o'er every mile of land 

the banner of our trust, 
We'll return to those whose images 

are shrined within the soul, 
And proudly listen while they read 

• our names on Honor's roll. 
On the Roll of Honor, boys ; on the 

Roll of Honor, boys ; 
Oh, let them see our names will be on 

the Roll of Honor, boys. 

When the twilight settles round us 
in life's evening cool and gray, 

Among our children's children we'll 
describe the battle-day ; 

They'll cluster to our knees to hear 
the story never old, 

And watch our trembling veteran 
hands point out the names en- 
rolled 

On the Roll of Honor, boys ; on the 
Roll of Honor, boys ; 

And they shall see our names will be 
on the Roll of Honor, boys. 

And when at last Death's night comes 

on and stops the battle-din, 
And we have conquered in our hearts 

the rebel hosts of sin, 
To the fields of Peace above us, may 

we march there soul to soul, 
And find our names emblazoned on 

the great Celestial Roll. 
On that Roll of Honor, boys ; on that 

Roll of Honor, boys ; 
Oh, let us see our names will be on 

that Roll of Honor, boys. 




THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



" Oh many a dangerous mountain-track, 
While oft lite tempest burst its wrack — ' 



THE WAGOXEE OF THE ALLEGHANJES. 



237 



THE WAGOJSTEE OF THE ALLEGHAIsTIES. 

A POEM OF THE DAYS OF SEVENTY-SIX. 



Look on your country, God's appointed stage, 

"Where man's vast mind its boundless course shall run. 

For that it was your stormy coast He spread, — 

A fear in winter; girdled you about 

"With granite hills, and made you firm and dread. 

Let him who fears before the foeman shout, 

Or gives one inch before a vein has bled, 

Turn on himself and let the traitor out. 

Boker. 



PKEFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The author is well aware of the justice of the remark made by his pub- 
lisher, that the present is not a favorable time to expect the country to receive 
a volume of poetry with any marked attention ; yet, as much of it has already 
been given to the public through the beautiful medium of Mr. Murdoch's 
voice, and as many have expressed a wish to see the poem entire, the author 
is induced to risk the chances. This is, however, not done without some fear 
and trembling on his part, inasmuch as it may turn out to be that the various 
audiences who have heard it, and expressed their approbation, may have been 
led captive by the reader's great elocutionary power rather than by the beauty 
of the verse. Whatever the verdict may be, one gratifying fact remains with 
the writer, that it has been instrumental, in the hands of Mr. Murdoch, of 
putting no inconsiderable sums of money into the treasuries of sanitary 
committees, — thereby benefiting the sick and wounded who have suffered in 
our country's cause. 

The scenes of this poem are chiefly laid on the banks of the Schuylkill, 
between Philadelphia and Valley Forge; the time, somewhat previous to and 
during a great part of the war of Independence. 



DEDICATION. 
TO JAMES L. CLAGHORN. 

MionT I draw the inspiration 
Which the sky not oft awards, 

And so join the constellation 
Of the death-defying bards ; 

Might I build some lofty moral. 

Keaching heavenward like a hill, 
On whose top should grow the 
laurel, 

Leaning towards me at its will ; — 



I would gather all the honor 
Not to bind around my brow ; 

But to you, a grateful donor, 
I would come, as I do now, 

And brine: trophies, where the Ages 
Should behold our mingled names 

But, alas ! these- simple pages 
Are the most my labor claims. 

Yet, should any leaves grow vernal 
In the summer breath of praise, 

Then for you, with hand fraternal, 
Let me twine my wreath of bays. 
Home, August 1, 1861. 



238 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



INTRODUCTION. 



A guest was I at Berkley Hall, — 

And more behooves not guest to say : 
The very pictures on the wall 

With kindness seemed to whisper, 
"Stay.!"— 
Old portraits of a dwindled line, 
Prom Lely's ruff and doublet down 
To Copley's matchless coat and 
gown, 
Or Stuart's later touch divine- 
Still from their frames of gold or oak, 
A knight or lady shepherdess, 
In valor or in loveliness, 
Leaned through the twilight air and 

spoke : 
They whispered that the road was 
dark, 
And lone the highway by the river, 
That past recall the latest barque 
Had swept the landing of the park, — 
There on the stream I still might 
mark 
Its fading path of ripples quiver, 
And hear the shore-wave running 

after, 
Like childhood with a voice of laugh- 
ter. 



"Was feasting at the well-built pyre, 
"Where every log, with glowing mirth, 
Poured from its breast of ample girth 
Some memory of April birth, 

To cheer the hearth-stone of October. 

There, conscious of his place and 

worth, 

One lordly hound, with visage sober, 

Sheathed his large eyes in sleep's 

eclipse, 

While visions of the woodland 

chase 
Disturbed the slumber on his face 
With twinklings at his ears and lips. 

That honored hearth was like a gate 

Wide with the welcome of old days ; 
No sulphur-fuming, modern grate, 
Which black bitumen daily crams, 
But waved between its ample jambs 

Its flag of hospitable blaze. 
A century gone 'twas lined with tiles, 

Like those the hearths of Holland 
show ; 
And still each Scripture picture smiles 

And brightens in the hickory glow. 



Oft from those painted sermons rude, 

In musing hours of solitude, 

A voiceless thought hath searched the 

heart 
Beyond the theologian's art. 
A moral winged with verse may reach 
A soul no weightier words will teach, 
As arrow from the archer's bow 
Has cleaved where falchion failed to 

go; 
And truths from out a picture oft, 
In colors as the iris soft, 
May shed an influence to remain 
Where argument would strive in vain. 

The chairs were quaint, antique, and 
tall, 

As in some old baronial hall ; 

And in an alcove dusk and dim, 
Like Denmark's mailed and phan- 
tom king, 

A suit of armor tall and grim 

With upraised glaive seemed beck- 
oning. 

And had it walked, the gazer, drawn, 

Must needs have followed on and on! 

The perforated steel confessed 

What death had pierced the wearer's 
breast. 

Near by, upon a throne upreared, 
A harp of bygone times appeared ; 
The graceful form was deltly made, 
With pearl and precious woods inlaid ; 
And in the firelight, as of old, 
It flushed the shadowy niche with gold. 

In all the orchestras which lift 

The soul with rapture caught from 
far, 

As in a bright triumphal car 
Bound which celestial splendors shift, 
No instrument of earth affords 

An influence so divine and deep 

As when the flying fingers sweep 
The harp, witfc all its wondrous chords. 
Around its honored form there lives 

Romance mysterious, vague, and 
old; 
I see the shapes which history gives 

The bards in dim traditions told, — 
With visions of great kingly halls, 
Where red, barbaric splendor falls ; 
But chiefly I behold and hear — 
While bends a troop of seraphs near — 

The angels, with their locks of gold. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEOHANIES. 



239 



Such shadowy halls of deep repose 
A New- World homestead seldom 

shows ; 
But such the traveller frequent sees, 
Embowered within ancestral trees, 
In that maternal isle whose breast 
First warmed our eagle into life, 
And then, with rude, unnatural 

strife, 
Pushed the brave offspring from her 

nest, — 
Which, launched upon its sunward 

track, 
No voice on earth could summon 

back. 

Here, while I slowly paced the room, 
Strange visions tilled the fitful gloom. 
On soft, invisible feet they came ; 
I heard them speak,— or was't the 

flame 
That muttered in the chimney wide? 
Faint shadows wavered at my side, 
My spirit heard a spirit sigh, 
While gauzy garments rustled by ! 
A pallid phantom of the fire 
Leapt o'er the high flame wildly 

higher, — 
A blaze that vanished with a bound ! 
A whine escaped the sleeping 

hound, — 
A sudden wind swept up the lane, 
And drove the leaves like frighted 

herds ; 
Some, like the ghosts of summer 

birds, 
Fluttered against the window-pane. 

Hawthorne, my friend, had I your 

wand, 
How, at the waving of my hand, 
The place, and all its grandeur 

gone, 
Should on the marvelling vision 

dawn ! 
Each shepherdess, or warrior bold, 
Each knight and dame, in ruff and 

frill, 
Obedient to the wizard will, 
Should step from antique oak or gold ; 
Bright eyes should glance, sweet 
voices sing, 
And light feet trip the waxen floor, 
And round the festive board should 
ring 
The friendly goblets, as of yore ; 



And Love's sweet grief be newly 

told 
Under the elm-trees, as of old. 
But, ah ! the hazel wand you wield 
Was grown by that enchanted 

stream 
Which sometimes flashes through 

my dream, 
But flows not through my barren 

field! 

The host came in : he took my 
hand : 
He saw the wonder on my face, 
And said, "Ah, yes : I understand: 
You marvel at this curious place, 
Which starts your fancy into play. 
My locks, you see, are somewhat 
gray : 
What touches you on me is lost. 
This white hair drives romance 
away, 
As flowers are driven by the frost. 
But if a tale would please your ear, 
There's one which you are free to 
hear. 

" Within a little, secret drawer 
Of this black, antique escritoire, 
I found a simple golden case, 
Which held the semblance of a face 
So wondrous in its wild attire 
Of floating robe and flying hair, 
And eyes that thrilled the very air 
To pleasure with their starry fire, 
That instantly the long-passed name 
Blazed on my memon T like a flame ; 
And old traditions, dimmed by 
years, 
Breathed from invisible lips there 
came, 
And lingered in my credulous 
ears, 
And night and day disturbed my 

soul, 
Until, perforce, I wrote the whole : 
That is the picture, — this the scroll. 
Draw near ; and let wild Autumn 
blow : 
He does but fan the lighted pyre : 
Between the warmth of wine and 
fire 
Perchance the verse may thaw and 
flow 
From off the visionary lyre 
As in the days of long ago." 



240 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



PAET I. 



BERKLEY'S BRIDE. 

My grandsire, when he built the place, 

Sir Hugh (you may behold hiui 
there, 

With ruffles, cue, and powdered 
hair, 
And proper blandness on his face) 
"Was Tory, and his loyal soul 

No rebel dream could e'er beguile: 
He would have had the land in whole, 
Colossal, touching either pole, 

A likeness of his native isle I 
Hence the Elizabethan gables, 
The lawns, the elms, the antique sta- 
bles, 
And all this lumber called virtu, 
This old time frowning down the new. 

But, ere I tell you more of him, 
Or point the objects strange and 
quaint, 
I pray you rote these figures dim, 

Half hid in dust and cracking paint. 
That picture of those little ones, 
"Which represent Alcmena's sons, 
Young Hercules and his weaker 
brother, — 
One with the snake in his baby 

hands, 
Crushing it as in iron bands, 
While in affright recoils the other, — 
Are portraits which the Berkley 

mother, 
In all the wealth of parental joys, 
Had painted of her two fair boys ; 
And pictured thus, because she knew 
There was that difference 'twixt the 
two. 
The child who holds the writhing 

snake 
Was Ralph; the one who seems to 
quake 
And shudder back, — that was Sir 
Hugh. 

They grew, and oft the quarrel loud 
Baged 'twixt them when they were 
together : 
Sir Hugh was sullen, wintry, proud, 
The other fierce as mad March 
weather, — 



A swift, cloud-blowing, whirling day, 
That o'er all obstacles makes way, 
Whether in wrath or whether in play, 
Striding on to the stormy end, 
Breaking what will not bow or bend. 

The soul which lights that face of 

paint, 
You well discern, would scorn re- 
straint ; 
And when he grew a stripling tall, 
Knowing himself the younger 

brother, 
And feeling the coldness of the 
other, 
The place for him proved far too 

small : 
So, staying not for leave to ask, 
Our Hercules went to seek his task ; 
And, lest his family might reclaim 
The truant, took another name, 
Joining the army. Tradition tells 
j He did some daring miracles. 
'Twassaid he fell in a midnight trench 
At Fort i)u Quesne, against the 

French. 
Sir Hugh was then the only son 
To hand the name of Berkley on. 

His lady — she who bears a crook, 

And shepherds at her careful side 
A lamb, while from her eyes a look 
Of mildness chastens half her 

pride — 
Gave to the house one child, and 
died. 

That child a maiden grown you see, 
With laughing eyes and tresses free, 
Which wellnigh mocked the 
painter's skill : 
It glows as if some morning beam 
Had poured here in a golden stream, 
And, when the sun passed, lingered 
still. 

A year or two went by, and then 

His heart was vacant as his hall. 

No pleasure answered to his call, 
No joy was in the world of men : 
One passion only swayed his mind, 

And thrust all other thoughts 
aside, — 

The passion of ancestral pride. 
The blindest of all eyes most blind 
Are those forever turned. behind. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



241 



Sheer to the past he held his face, 
Like some mad boatman on a river, 

"With eyes still on some long-gone 
place, 
Until he feels the shock and shiver 
"Which tells him he is gone forever. 

The empty hall, or vacant heart, 

When a new-comer passes in, 
Throwing the dusty doors apart, 

Sounds and re-echoes with a din 
Which makes the ghostly shadows 
start 

And fly into the dusk remote ; 

The webs about the casements float. 
And flutter on the sudden gust ; 
The sun pours in its golden dust ; 

The phantom Silence dies in air, 
And rapidly from hall to hall, 

With questioning eyes and back- 
ward hair, 

Wild Wonder speeds, and mounts 
the stair, 
Chasing the echoes' far footfall. 

Thus into Berkley's hall and heart, 

Led by his fancy's sudden whim, 
Passed a new bride, — a face to dart 

Strange lustre through the twilight 
dim, — 

A soul that even startled him, 
Until he half forgot his pride: 

Else had he never stooped to em- 
bower 

Beneath his ancient roof the flower 
To common wild-wood vines allied. 

Thus oft the passion most profound, 
Which triumphed over all the 
past, 

With unexpected halt, wheels round, 
And contradicts itself at. last. 

He took her from a rival's breast. 
The hot youth dared him to the test: 

Alas ! he fell on Berkley's steel ; 

And, it is said, through "woe or weal 
She ever loved the rival best. 

Her heart was like a crystal spring, 
Fluttered by every breezy wing: 
Was there a cloud ? a darker shade 
Was in its deep recesses laid ; 
Was there a sun ? the pool, o'errun 
With glory, seemed to mock the 
sun. 



Her black hair, oft with violets twined 
(Her heart was with the wildest 
flowers), 
Tossed back at random, wooed the 
wind, 
That chased her through the forest 
bowers. 
The woodman felt his hand relax 
A moment on the lifted axe, 

As through the vistas of the trees 
He saw her glide, a spirit blithe ; 

Or, when she tript the harvest leas, 
The singing mower stayed his scythe, 
W^atched where she fled, then took 

his way, 
And, mowing, sang no more that day. 

With no misgiving thought or doubt, 
Her fond arms clasped his child about, 
In the full mantle of her love : 

For whoso loves the darling flowers 

Must love the bloom of human 
bowers, — 
The types of brightest things above. 
One day — one happy summer day — 

She prest it to her tender breast: 
The sunshine of its head there lay 

As pillowed in its native rest, — 
A blissful picture of repose, 
A lily bosomed on a rose : 
The smallest lily of the vale 
Making the rose's sweet breast pale. 

One only, day, — and then the sire, 
Still to his former spirit true, 
Lest the young bud should take the 
hue 
Of that which glowed too fondly by 

her, — 
Of that sweet wildling, nature's 

own, — 
And thereby learn the look and tone 
Of spirits alien unto pride, 
Conveyed her to the river's side. — 
For months his household felt 

eclipse, — 
And one of his own many ships 
Bore her across the ocean wide ; 
And soon in her ancestral isle 
Was shed the sunshine of her smile. 

Ere half the summer passed away, 
The lady Berkley c;rew less gay, 
And, like a captured forest fawn, 
She seemed to mourn some freedom 
gone,— 



21 



242 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



Mourned for her native mountain- 
wild, 

From which her feet had been be- 
guiled. 

Her cheeks grew pale, and dim her 

eve > 
Her voice was low, her mirth was 
stayed ; 
Upon her heart there seemed to lie 

The darkness of a nameless shade ; 
She paced the house from room to 
room, 



The menials, in their fancy wise, 
Glared at each other with strange 
leers ; 
And, when she met her husband's eyes, 
Her sad soul burst to instant tears. 
He wondered with a cold surmise, 
And questioned with as heartless 
words : 
And could it be a woodland flower 
Would pine within such stately 
bower ? 
Or, favored o'er all forest birds, 
Could this one droop with strange 

desires 
Within a cage of golden wires ? 

Have you beheld the mountain brook 
Turned to some cultured garden- 
nook, — 
How it grows stagnant in the pool, 
Like some wild urchin in a school 
That saddens o'er a hateful book ? 
Thus grew the lady, and her look 
Became at last as one insane ; 
The cloud that long o'ercast her 

brain 
Still whirled with gusty falls of 
rain, 
Which drowned her heart and 

dimmed her eyes, 
As when the dull autumnal skies 
Long blur the dreary window-pane. 

One morn, strange wonder filled the 
place, 
And fruitless searching filled the 
day; 
The stream, the woodland, gave no 
trace : 
They only knew she passed away, — 
Passed like a vision in the air, 
With naught to tell of how or where. 



Tradition adds how, night by night, 
With hanging hair and robes of 

white, 
With pallid hands together prest 
In pain upon her aching breast, 
Her spirit walked from room to room, 
As if in search of something lost ; 
That even Berkley shunned the 
gloom, 
Fearing to meet that breathless 
ghost ; 
For some averred her form had been 
Afloat upon the river seen ; 
While some, with stouter words, re- 
plied, 
The maniac lady wandered wide 
Upon her native mountain-side. 



THE WILD WAGONER. 

In days long gone, "The Ship and 

Sheaf" 
Was deemed of goodly inns the 

chief: — 
" The Ship," — because its ample door 
Fronted the barques that lined the 
shore, 
Where oft the sun, o'er Delaware, 
Looking 'twixt masts and cordage 
bare, 
Their shadows threw on the sanded 
floor, 
Sailing a phantom vessel there. 

And there the crews from far-off 
climes 

Beeled in and sang their rough sea- 
rhymes, 

With laughter learned from the ocean 
gale, _ 

As clinked their dripping cups of ale ; 

While froth was dashed o'er many a 

!i P' 
Like foam against a speeding ship, . 

And tables chronicled in scars 

The tankards and the thirsty tars. 

"The Sheaf," — because the wagoner 
there, 
The captain of the highway-ship, 
Fresh breathing of his mountain air, 
Hung on the wall his coat and 
whip ; 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



243 



And farmer, bringing his stores to 

town, 
And drover, who drove his cattle 

down, 
Conversed of pastures and of 

sheaves, 
The season's drouth, or ruinous rain, 
Or told <>f fabulous crops of grain. 
Or fields where grazed incredible 

beeves. 

'Twas April, and the evening winds 
"Were rattling at the open blinds ; 
The sign, upon its hinge of rust, 
iVIade dreary answer to the gust, 
That smote the masts like an ocean 



squall, 
And, whistling, 
swain's call 



mocked the boat- 



The latch went up ; the door was 

thrown 
Awide, as by a tempest blown ; 
While, bold as an embodied storm, 
Strode in a dark and stalwart form, 
And all the lights in the sudden wind 
Flared as he slammed the door be- 
hind. 

The noisy revellers ceased their din, 

And into the corner skulked the cur, 
As the startled keeper welcomed in 

The feared and famous wagoner ! 
Not long they brooked the keen eye- 
glance 
Who gazed into that countenance; 
And even in his mildest mood 
His voice was sudden, loud, and rude 
As is a swollen mountain-stream. 
He spoke as to a restive team. 
His team was of the wildest breed 

That ever tested wagoner's skill : 
Each was a fierce, unbroken steed, 

Curbed only by his giant will ; 
And every hostler quaked with fear 
What time his loud bells wrangled 
near. 

On many a dangerous mountain- 
track, 

While oft the tempest burst its wrack, 

When lightning, like his mad whip- 
lash, 

Whirled round the team its crooked 
flash, 
And horses reared in fiery fright, 



While near them burst the thunder- 
crash, 
Then heard the gale his voice of 
might. 
The peasant from his window gazed, 
And, staring through the darkened 
air, 
Saw, when the sudden lightning 
blazed, 
The fearful vision plunging there ! 

And oft on many a wintry hill 

He dashed from out the vale below, 
And heaved his way through drifts 
of snow, 
While all his wheels, with voices 
shrill, 
Shrieked to the frosty air afar, 
As if December's tempest-car 
Obeyed the winter's maniac will. 

Ye knew him well, ye mountain- 
miles, 

Throughout your numerous dark de- 
files : — 

Where Juniata leaps away 

On feathery wings of foam and spray ; 

Or queenly Susquehanna smiles, 

Proud in the grace of her thousand 
isles ; 

Where Poet and Historian fling 

Their light o'er classic Wyoming ; 

And you, ye green Lancastrian 
fields, 

Rich with the wealth which Ceres 
yields ; 

And Chester's storied vales and hills, 
In depths of rural calm divine, 
Where reels the flashing Brandy- 
wine 

And dallies with its hundred mills. 

Such was the figure, strange and wild ; 
And at his side a twelve-years child — 
An eagle-eyed, bright, wondering 

lad, 
In rustic winter garments clad — 
Entered, and held the wagoner's 

hand, 
While on his visage, flushed and 

tanned, 
A pleasure mingled with amaze 
Parted his lips and filled his £jaze. 
II is hair was wavy, long, and black, 
And from his forehead drifted back 



244 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEG1IANIES. 



By the last greeting of the gale, 
"Where still the random rain and 

hail 
Clung glistening like the tangled 

pearls 
In careless locks of Indian girls. 

The host with usual " welcome" 

smiled, 
And praised the bright-eyed stranger 

child ; 
Whereat the wagoner lightly spake : — 
" Be all your praising for his sake: 
I found him in the wagon-trough 

A-swinging like a cradled thing ; 
With angry words I bade him off, — 
He stared with large eyes wonder- 
ing, 
And answered that his way was 
long, 
His knees were tired, his feet were 

sore ; 
And then his face new brightness 
wore, 
And straight his spirit burst to song : 
I listened, and my frown gave o'er. 

" My nature, like my hand, is rough, 
My heart is of rude mountain stuff; 
And yet, I own, a laughing child 
Can make at times my temper mild. 

" I placed him on the wheel-horse 
back, 
Where shoulder shaken bells were 
ringing. 
The king of all the bells was he, — 
So silver-clear his voice of glee ; 
And there he cheered the way with 
singing, 
Till music filled our dreary track. 

" There is not much I ask or need ; 
Yet would I give my favorite steed 
To sing the song he sang to-day, 
And for a heart as light and gay : 
The very team went rearing mad 
With joy beneath his voice so glad, 
As when the steeds of battle hear 
The wild war-clarion ringing near. 
Come, my young wood-bird, sing 

again 
That breezy song, — that mountain 

strain.'' 
And thus, from lips of fresh delight, 
The wild and artless song took flight, 



SONG. 



Where sweeps round the mountains 

The cloud on the gale, 
And streams from their fountains 

Leap into the vale, — 
Like frighted deer leap when 

The storm with his pack 
Rides over the steep in 

The wild torrent's track, — 
Even there my free home is ; 

There watch I the flocks 
Wander white as the foam is 

On stair-ways of rocks. 
Secure in the gorge there 

In freedom we sing, 
And laugh at King George, where 

The Eagle is king. 

ii. 

I mount the wild horse with 

Ko saddle or rein, 
And guide his swift course with 

A grasp on his mane ; 
Through paths steep and narrow, 

And scorning the crag, 
I chase with my arrow 

The flight of the stag. 
Through snow-drifts engulfing, 

I follow the bear, 
And face the gaUnt wolf when 

He snarls in his lair, 
And watch through the gorge there 

The red panther spiing, 
And laugh at King George, where 

The Eagle is king. 



When April is sounding 

His horn o'er the hills, 
And brooklets are bounding 

In joy to the mills, — 
When warm August slumbers 

Among her green leaves, 
And Harvest encumbers 

Her garners with sheaves, — 
When the flail of November 

Is swinging with might, 
And the miller December 

Is mantled with white, — 
In field and in forge there 

The free-hearted sing, 
And laugh at King George, where 

The Eagle is king. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



245 



Some praised the voice, and some, in 

doubt, 
With look uncertain, gazed about ; 
And some, with loyal feeling strong, 
Condemned the singer and the song, 
And swore it was a rebel strain 
They would not calmly hear again. 
Whereat the wagoner's eyes of fire 
Flashed round a withering look of 

ire ; 
His brows grew black, his temple- 
veins 
Grew large, like brooks with sudden 

rains ; 
From face to face he bent his 

glance, 
And searched each quailing coun- 
tenance. 

Thus for a time great Henry stood, 
When cries of " treason" fired his 

blood, 
Till from his quivering lips was hurled 
The answer that awoke the world. 
And thus the last of all that band,* 
The giants of our native laud, 
The safeguards in our darkest hours, 
Our bulwarks and our sentinel towers, 
Oft stood, and from his cavernous 

eyes 
Sped to the heart his great replies : 
Far in advance he fiercely sent 
The fiery shaft of argument ; 
And, when he spoke, 'twas but to tell 
In thunder where the red bolt fell ! 

Thus stood the wagoner, till at length, 
With voice subdued to conscious 

strength, 
He spoke, and said, " Our eagle's wing 
Shall mount, the eagle shall be king ! 
And jackals shall be heard no more 
When Freedom's monarch bird shall 

soar." 

'Twas passed, and none essayed reply : 
Defeat or triumph filled each eye. 
Whence came the boy ? was asked in 
vain ; 
What errand brought the truant 

down ? 
What would he in the 
town ? — 
Conjecture but replied again. 



noisy 



* Webster. 



The wagoner drew the host aside, 
And said, " The storm approaches 
near, 

And soon its bolts must be defied : 
For me its thunders bring no fear; 
But for this tender fledgling here, 

'Twere well if he awhile might rest 

Secure in some protected nest. 

" This hand that long ha's grasped the 

whip 
Must shortly take within its grip 
Another scourge, and boldly deal 
The blow a tyrant needs must feel: 
Hence it were best the boy should be 
Eemoved a little space from me, 
Lest that the battling oak might 

wrong 
The eaglet it has sheltered long." 

Then said the landlord, as he took 
Another survey of the face, 
" It was no fancy made me trace 
In that young form the Kingbolt 

look. 
Although your answer seemed to say 
He crossed but now your town ward 
way." 

" Even as I told," the wagoner said, 
" The urchin, wild of heart and head, 
Wishing to follow where I led, 
Stealthily stole behind the wain, 
Breasting the gusts of hail and rain. 
It was no easy task, I fear, 
For one so young to keep so near. 
For miles I thought I heard the beat 
And splash, behind, of following feet. 
You well may guess with what sur- 
prise 
I met the truant's laughing eve?. 
And how that face of brave delisrht, 
While in the trough he sat upright, 
Put all my chiding words to flight. 

" All day my thoughts were some- 
what sad 
With too much dwelling on the lad, 
Contriving where I best might trust 
His sheltered head when comes the 

gust. 
For when it comes, I must be where 
The thickest dangers are to dare ; 
And there are cowards who would 

make 
The boy a victim for my sake. 



21* 



246 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



It was for this I would not own 
Before these Tories of the town 

The child was aught to me beside 
A friendless truant wandering down, 

Whom, pitying, 1 allowed to ride. 

" And now, my friend, I ask of you 

To aid me in my urgent need, — 
To give or find the boy a home 
"Where present danger may not come : 
For this you shall receive your due, 
Even though it cost my last good 
steed.'' 

The host replied, " Leave that to me : 
There's many a one comes here to 
dine 

Would joy beside his chair to see 
So lithe an urchin serve his wine.* 7 

" Serve! 1 ' — but between the wagoner's 

teeth 
The word was crushed to instant 

death : 
His brow grew black a moment, then 
As quickly it was cleared again. 
" Be it, good landlord, as you say," 
He murmured : " 'tis but for a day," 
And then abruptly turned away. 

Under the gable-roof the boy 
Soon prest the soothing bed with joy : 
A little while he heard the sigh 
Of winds like spirits hovering nigh, 
The weather-vane that creaked aloof, 
The slumberous rain along the roof, 
And breathed the scent of bundled 
herbs 
Close to the waspy rafters hung ; 
Then heard the hour from the belfry 
flung, 
And then the watch along the curbs, 
With voice that warns but not dis- 
turbs ; 
Then slept, and dreamed of his native 

place, 
And woke with the red sun on his face. 



in. 

THE HEIKESS. 

Out of the sea, and over the land, 
Over the level Jersey sand, 
Making the bay with splendor quiver, 
Flashing a glory up the river, 



Came the morn on its wheel of fire, 
Flinging flame from its glowing tire. 

And w T ith the morning, up the tide, 
Through golden vapor dim descried, 
A distant ship was seen to ride, 
Vague as a vessel in a dream, — 
More in the sky than on the stream. 

Down to the wharf a horseman rode, 
As oft on many a morn before, 1 
To note the barques that inland 

bore ; 
And when his glance had swept the 
shore, 
His face with sudden pleasure glowed. 
He gave the rein to a boy near by, 
And raised him in his stirrups high, 
And poised the glass at his anxious 

eye.— 
Long time with breathless breast he 

gazed, 
Then deeply sighed, " Now, Heaven 
be praised !" 
And to a skipper sauntering past 
He cried, " Unless my vision fail, 
I know the set of yonder sail, 

And the streamer at her mast !" 
The skipper then a moment scanned 
The ship beneath his shading hand, 
And answered, with a sudden 
smile, 
"Ay, av, sir: I should know that 

deck : 
The same that saved us once from 
wreck, — 
1 The Lady of the Isle' ! " 

In haste the rider grasped the rein, 
And turned his restive steed again, 
Yet, ere he sped, with hand of joy 
A coin of silver flung the boy, 
And, as he threw, looked down and 
smiled ; 
And then, as if some form had risen 
To meet him from its churchyard 
prison, 
He stared upon the wondering child. 
He would have spoke ; but gayly 
now, 
Before the startled words could join, 
The boy was toying with the coin, 
Twirling it in the sunny air, 
Laughing to see it flashing there. 
A moment the rider pressed his 
brow, 




THE WAGONER OF THE A L L E G H A N I E S. 



"And with the morning, up the tide, 
Through golden vapor dim descried, 
A distant ship was seen to ride 
Vague <is a vessel in a dream.'''' 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



247 



Then dashed the vision in scorn aside, 

And glanced again o'er the distant 

tide, 

And, with a face of new delight, 

Struck to the rowels the glittering 

spurs : 
The steed obeyed the urging burrs, 
And bore proud Berkley out of 
sight. 

The hour went by. Before the town 
The ship came up; the sails were 

doft; 
The happy crew, alow and aloft, 
Sang as the anchor rattled down, — 
Down and down, as the windlass 

flew, 
Linking the Old World with the 
New. 

A crowd was gathering on the wharf, 
A crowd leaned on the vessel's side, 

And here and there a waving scarf 
Bespoke some welcome friend de- 
scried. 

At the open gang a maiden stood, 
Reflected in the happy flood, — 
Oh, enviable flood, how blest 
"With such a vision on thy breast ! — 
Stood like a timid, startled fawn 
Gazing where its mates are gone ; 
Stood like a white star in the dawn, 
Looking with inquiring eyes 
Where its westward pathway lies. 

Loud rumbling to the shore anon 
A stately coach came proudly drawn, 
"With the ancient Berkley arms 

thereon ; 
And soon to land the maid, whose 

hair 
Shed amber beauty in the air, 
Was borne, and on her father's breast 
The long-expected child was prest. 

The gold of fifteen summer suns 
Was tangled in young Esther's 
locks ; 
Her voice, it was a rill that runs 
Half spray among the flowers and 
rocks ; 
The hues of the dewiest violet 
Within her liquid eyes were set ; 
Her form was small, her figure light 
As is some fabled fountain-sprite ; 



The aerial scarf about her twined 
Like gossamer, seemed to woo the 

wind ; 
A shape so light, she seemed to be 
That vision which poets only see, — 
The spirit of that iris small 
Poised on the mist of a waterfall. 

Foremost amid the crowd amazed 
The truant urchin stood and gazed. 
His sunbrown cheek and large dark 

eyes, 
His long black hair and rustic guise, 
Contrasted with the maiden bright, 
In her auroral beauty dight, 
As if some offspring of the eve 
His dusk home in the west should 

leave, 
To gaze, by love and wonder drawn, 
On some fair daughter of the dawn. 

Again the proud man, in his joy, 
Shuddered as he beheld the boy ; 
But the happy maid looked round and 

smiled, — 
Smiled through her tears at the vision 

wild 
Of flashing eyes and raven hair, 
And cheeks long tanned by mountain- 
air. 
That smile went to the urchin's heart, 
Secure as ever archer's dart 
Sped to the target's central shade, 
Long quivering where it struck and 
staved. 



loud, 

Conveyed the lovely shape from 
sight ; 

And he felt like a traveller in the 
night 
When the moon glides into a thunder- 
cloud 

And will no more return to sight. 

Out of the vessel came many a box 
Of Berkley's treasures manifold; 
Some with iron bands and locks, 
Some from the cabin, some from 

the hold. 
Some were carried, some were 
rolled ; 
But one, with curious shape, to 

shore 
With careful hands the sailors bore : 



248 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



They said it contained a harp of gold 
Of strange device, — they knew no 
more. 

A wain took up the various load ; 

The truant followed it out of town, 
By wild, adventurous wonder drawn, 
Along the winding highway road, 

Where Berkley Hall looked proudly 
down 
Over its river-reaching lawn. 

"When Berkley saw the boy again, 
He took him by the willing hand, 

And asked him questions simple, 
plain, 
In easy words to understand ; 

But still the youth, with laughing 
eyes, 

Made answer with wide, vague re- 
plies ; 

Nor would he tell from whence he 
came, 

But answered, " Ilgo" was his name. 

And then the master smoothed his 
hair, 
And said, in soothing accents mild, 
" It is a barren world, my child, 

And full of hearts as bleak and bare 
As is a winter heath forlorn, 
"Where only thrives the tangled 
thorn ; 

And when a stray lamb wanders there 
Its sides are sorely fleeced and torn. 

What can you to secure your bread ? 

Or how at night procure your bed ?" 

The boy looked up with wondering 

face, 
Which told such, thought had never 

place 
Within the precincts of his brain ; 
And then he gayly cried again, 
With voice on laughter's sudden 

wing, 
" So please you, master, I can sing !" 

" A fair profession, by my troth !" 
Sir Hugh replied, " when tune and 
words 
Are fitted well, and, suiting both, 
The spirit with the voice accords : 
But they come off the hungriest 
birds 



Who, so enamored of their strain, 
Sing while the others, in the grain, 
With voiceless but industrious beaks, 
Feed well through all the harvest 

weeks. 
But pour me from your frolic heart 
A sample of your vocal art." 

His simple tongue no urging stayed, 
And thus the call for song was paid. 



SONG. 



Where the peaks first greet the 

morn, 
Where the mighty streams are 

born, — 
Streams that sweep from east to 

west, 
Bearing great arks on their breast, — 
Where the eagle rears her young 
Barren rocks and pines among, 
There's a child which knows no fear. 
In the home of the mountaineer. 



Oft among the forests wild 

The lone woodman hears the child 

Singing with the earliest dawn, 

And his playmate is a fawn : 

When that fawn's broad antlers 

spring, 
They shall hear him louder sing ; 
Then his startling song shall cheer 
Par and wide the mountaineer. 

in. 

Then his hero-hand shall take 
In its grasp a crested snake, 
And its front, so proudly crowned, 
Shall be humbled to the ground, — 
Humbled, trampled in the sand, — 
And no longer fright the land ; 
Then the world shall thrill to hear 
Songs of that young mountaineer. 

The listener, half-way frowning, 

smiled, 
And said, " Perchance you are that 

child 
Far wandering from your mountains 

wild, 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



249 



And full of those obnoxious songs 
But lit for rebel ears and tongues?" 

"Oh, no!" the laughing youth re- 
plied ; 
"Although I come from the moun- 
tain-side, 
My songs I learned from a school- 
man gray, 
"Who, when the children went to play, 
Oft called us round him in a ring, 
And, singing, taught us all to sing." 

Then Berks's brow relaxed his 

frown, 
And he looked still more kindly 

down ; 
For there was something in that voice 
Which made him sigh and yet rejoice ; 
And then he cried, " Come in ! come 

in! — 
I care not what your kith or kin, 
Your face and singing please me 

well ; 
And, if you will, here may you 

dwell, 
And be, till your maturer age, 
A gentle lady's faithful page." 



IV. 

THE WELCOME. 

Days passed ; and now from Berkley 
Hall, 
When evening sped her herald star, 
Gay music, with wild rise and fall, 
Streamed on the air ; the windows all 
Shot their red beams of splendor 
far, 
Firing the dark like beacon-torches ; 
While, like a wedding-train, there 

flowed 
Gay coaches up the winding road, 
Grating the gravel near the porches. 

Form after form, in rich attire 

Of gems and rustling garments 

bright, 
Swept like shadows out of the night 
Into the sudden blaze of light, 

Gleaming as in a robe of fire. 

The peasant on the distant slope, 

Agaze at joys beyond his hope, 



Believing the world was what it 

seemed, — 
Alas that others should be more 

wise ! — 
Beheld them glide, as he fondly 

deemed, 
Into a transient paradise. 
Along the casements he saw them 

pass, 
As phantoms on the flaming glass ; 
And when the music awoke the dance, 
Like shadows they seemed to sway 

and glance, 
Or revellers seen in a dreamer's trance. 

Fond soul, could some kind sprite 
have shown 
Some hearts beneath those robes 
and gems, 
The smile without, within the groan, 
He had not sighed that, poor, un- 
known, 
He stood apart in the open air, 
Or bartered his peace with the proud- 
est there 
To wear the wealth of diadems. 
On the side of the neighboring height 
He saw the modest cottage light 
Gleam, like a glow-worm in the night, 
Through the foliage deep and dark : 
Strange contrast to the splendor bright 
Burning in midst of Berkley Park. 
And could the marvelling man have 

seen 
As clearly into that home serene 
As into that glittering hall of pride, — 
Have seen the pastor's patriarch hair 
Bending over the volume wide, 

And heard the old clock on the stair 

Saying its " Amen" to the prayer, 

And, when the evening hymn was 

sung, 
Joining with its silver tongue, — 
He had not sighed o'er his station 
mean, 
While hearkening to that worldly 

din, 
Nor envied the tinsel triumph 
thin 
Of the stateliest hero of the scene. 
But hearts are human moths, alas ! 
Fluttering against the glittering 

glass, 
Flying from Nature's flowery ways 
To worship and die at a transient 
blaze. 



250 THE WAGONER OF 


THE ALLEGHAN1ES. 


Within, beneath the chandeliers, 


She passed, like a ray of sunshine 


"Wealth, envious of her two com- 


warm 


peers, 


Cleaving its way through a broken 


Beauty and Wit, her shoulders bare, 


cloud. 


Strode with her diamond front in 




air. 


First there was silence, — breaths long 




drawn, 


There Beauty walked, too oft a shell, 


As they would breathe her beauty 


A bower of roses round a cell, 


in, 


A casket exquisitely bright, 


And eyes full-orbed, as they would 


With not a jewel hid from sight; 


win 


Like those proud piles by travellers 


New light from her enchanted dawn ; 


found 


And then the sudden whisper stirred, 


In foreign lands, with statues crowned, 


Like winds within the aspens heard. ' 


Covered with all "that charms the eye, 


The proud man caught the applause 


While within sits Poverty, 


around, 


Cowering in the ancestral dust, 


That thrilled his depths of pride pro- 


With scarce an ember or a crust. 


found, 




Where it echoed, like a bugle wound 


And Wit, with sparkling glance, was 


Near caverns that prolong the sound. 


there, 




With flashing words of transient 


Then to her throned harp he led, 


glare, 


Where lustre of gold and pearl was 


Of satire or of flattery, — 


shed, 


Thoughts that lorded or bowed the 


Like the light that flushed the air 


knee : 


Around the maiden's pearl-looped 


They who lord it with haughtiest 


hair. 


brow 


A moment her timorous fingers tried 


Have ever the supplest knees to bow. 


The chords that tremulously replied, 


All these, Wealth, Beauty, Wit, 


Like reeds beside a little lake. 


bright three, — 


Warned by a breeze ere the winds 


Graces they were by Heaven de- 


awake : 


signed, 


She toyed with the prelude ; but not 


But oftener grow, through vanity, 


long 


The vices that ensnare the mind. 


The herald notes foreran the song. 


But there was one in whom these 




th ree 




Were joined in sweetest unity, — 




To all the Virtues reconciled, 




But chiefly Charity's favorite child. 


SONG. 


So bright the spirit her form en- 




shrined, 


i. 


So clearly the face displayed the 




mind, 


What though my feet have wandered 


That the coldest gazer's heart 'gan 


far 


melt, 


Through groves and lawns of an- 


And, in after-daj^s of memory, felt 


tique shores, 


A kindlier impulse toward his kind : 


Where ever to the morning star 


And it was all to welcome her 


The enamored lark her love-song 


The glittering groups collected were 


pours, 




And through enchanted woods and 


Through the crowd, on her father's 


vales 


arm, — 


Romance still walks, a spirit free, 


How proud he was ! how very 


Thrilled by the poet-nightingales : 


proud ! — 


I turn, dear native land, to thee. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



251 



It is not that thy giant floods 

Sweep seaward with unrivalled 
flow ; 
It is not that thy pathless woods 
Have majesty no others show ; 
Not for thy matchless inland seas, 
"Wider than eagle's eye discerns, 
Nor mountains vast; — 'tis not for 
these 
My heart, dear land, to thee re- 
turns : — 



Not for thy seasons, though they 
sweep 
From unknown continents of ice, 
Or, waked in tropic forests deep, 
Bring summer from the land of 
spice ; 
Not that thy fiery forest-trees, 

At harvest-close, with splendors 
burn 
In hues triumphant ; — not for these 
To thee, dear land, my steps re- 
turn. — 



IV. 



Not only that my native hearth 

Is shrined among thy greenest hills, 
Or that my earliest infant mirth 

Was learned among thy flowers 
and rills, 
But, chiefly, that before thee opes 

A glorious future, grand and free, 
And thou hast all my brightest 
hopes, — 

For this, dear land, I turn to thee. 

To give the words by a maiden sung 
After they have passed her tongue, 
When more than half of all the grace 
Was in her voice and on her face, 
Is hut to render a cup long drawn, 
With all its effervescence gone; 
'Tis hut to treasure in after-hours 
The garland of faded and dewless 

flowers 
That in the flood of the banquet-light 
Made the wearer's brow more bright. 
Had another dared the same to sing, 
They had denounced it a rehel thing ; 



But from her lips could come no 

wrong : 
So they praised the singer and the 

song. 

'Mid those who listened, too rapt to 

praise, 
Like blossoms that close in the sun's 

full blaze, 
Folding the ecstasy into the heart 
In silence, lest the smallest part 
Should exhale on the breath of joy 

exprest, 
Stood one, a chance-invited guest, 
Half hidden by a curtain's fold, 
Too modest and proud to be more 

bold, 
A youth — the neighboring pastor's 

son — 
Whose mind and mien had already 

won 
The wide applause which oft exalts 
Till envy finds the virtues faults. 
A student he was, with cheeks grown 

pale, 
Long bleached in that scholastic vale 
Where mild-eyed Meditation camps 
Among her midnight books and 

lamps. 

But as he stood and heard her sing, 
And gazed with charmed lips apart, 
The joy long nestling in his "heart 

Flew to his cheek on flaming wing. 

So feels the prisoner when his cell 

Flies open, as by a miracle ; 

So glows he, breathing what freedom 
yields 

That first hour in the summer fields. 

Yes ; love, and wonder, and delight, 

All three into his breast took flight ; 

And those who knew young Edgar 
best 

Noted the change on his face con- 
fessed. 

Near by, with scarlet coat and plume, 
Like a bonfire in the room, 
An officer of the royal troops 
Blazed among the admiring groups, 
Who, when his eye approval glanced, 
Or when he spoke the applauding 
word, 
Deemed Berkley's honor was ad- 
vanced ; 



252 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



And, he, too, felt a new delight, 
And deigned from his great warrior 

height 
To stoop, and own his heart was 

stirred. 

Outside, in the stars' still light, 
Like a spirit of the night, 
Pressing close to the window-pane, 
With eyes of wonder and mirth in- 
sane, 
There looked a face which shunned 

the gaze, 
Coming and going, as a shadow plays 
"When the wind, with rise and fall, 
Sways the elm-shade on the wall. 

This with a smile the maiden saw, 
Saw it come and then withdraw ; 

And oft they knew not why she 
smiled, 

Nor saw the vision strange and wild 
"Which she beheld with looks of joy, — 
The frolic-hearted truant boy. 

Thus oft beside a delirious child 
The watchers see upon its face 
Expressions which they cannot trace, 
And where its eyes so fondly turn 
They look, but nothing can discern, 
Still conscious of a presence near 
Of what they cannot see or hear. 

After the supper and the wine, 
"Where flowed the Moselle and the 

Khine, 
And Burgundy and prouder Spain, 
Disputing, held divided reign, — 
For Berkley deemed the worst of faults 
Poor brands, or scant-provided 

vaults, — 
Out they sallied into the air ; 
And the great white moon was there. 
In merry groups about the green 
They strolled, and praised the night 

serene ; 
Here the laugh and there the song 
Waked from sleep the feathery throng, 
Nested in the vernal realms 
Of the poplars and the elms. 
Their heads unsheathing from the 

wing, 
Some, which only the dark makes 

dumb, 
Wondered if the dawn had come, — 
The time to deck their plumes and 

sing. 



In the grove the whippoorwill 
Forgot his story, and sat still : 
But all who tell a tale of pain 
Know well the place to begin again. 

Music on a waveless stream 
Where the stars and moonshine gleam, 
W^hile the light oar noiseless dips, ' 
And then, lifting, brightly drips, 
As if hung with pearl-strings rare, 
Caught from the water-spirits' hair; 
Then the music- freighted boat 
Seems some fairy ark afloat, 
Filled with groups of airy elves 
Playing to delight themselves, 
Blowing marvellous instruments, 
With a thrill of joy intense, 
Until the sounds that ring afar ' 
Seem blown from manj 7 a clarion star; 
Or as the thin rays of the moon, 
By some marvellous alchemy, 
Were changed from light to melody, 
One-half lustre, one-half tune ; 
Or as the veil of the other world 
Were partly lifted, partly furled, 
And underneath the soft notes born 
In the eternal fields of morn 
W T ere wafted, on the wings of bliss, 
Out of that realm into this. 

Such were the sounds there heard to 

flow 
From off the winding stream below, — 
Till suddenly a clattering steed 
Dashed up the road in furious speed ; 
But soon the checking rein was drawn, 
And now the rider gained the lawn. 

And into Berkley's ear apart 

He breathed a word that thrilled his 

heart ; 
And then from group to group it 

passed, 
Quaking the breast from first to last : 
Something about a rebel troop, 
Like an eagle, soon to swoop ; 
How some of that obnoxious clan, 
With horrid noise of horn and pan, 10 
Had borne in mockery up and down, 

In a rough and jolting car, 
The noisiest Tory of the town, 

And only spared the plumes and tar 
Because they deemed the honor due 
To loyalists of deeper hue. 
And it was said, and well believed, 
And much the king's supporters 

grieved, 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



253 



That many a secret rebel band 

"Was swiftly forming through the 

land ; 
Nor could the wisest well divine 
The object of their full design, 
But knew it much behooved them 

each 
To be prepared or out of reach. 
And— who could tell ?— before they 

knew, 
Some lawless and marauding crew — 
None guessed their number or their 

power — 
Might choose in such a festive hour 
To burst into their midst and lay 
A tax which it were hard to pay. 

Scarce was the warning heard before 
There was swift mounting at Berkley 

door, 
And jostlinghurry down roads of dust, 
As if they tied from a thunder-gust ! 
They swept along the highway white, 
Like autumn leaves before the wind 
"Which heralds the drowning storm 
behind, 
And round the far hill passed from 
sight. 



THE UNWELCOME. 

Proud Berkley, while his arm was 

placed 
Around his daughter's slender waist, 
As up the lawn they swiftly paced, 
Called loudly to his men in haste 
To make the outer gates secure, 
To bar and lock the stable door, 
Then loose the iron kennel-check 
From off the savage mastiff's neck. 

But scarce their feet had pressed the 

floor 
Beside the open entrance-door, 
When still he heard the revelling din 
Of some who drank and laughed 

within. 
Then cried the host, in gayer strain, 
" It seems some lingering guests re- 
main, 
To praise those old Burgundian casks 
Or compliment the Rhenish flasks. 



This suits me well. I'll bid them stay 
And revel till the break of day ; 
For where such manly mirth is made 
No rebel band will dare invade." 

He paced the hall like a generous host, 
And laughed to hear the loud up- 
roar, 
Then cried, as he swung the festive 
door, 
" Fill up, my friends, to a loyal toast! 
Fill high!" — but, at the sight re- 
vealed, 
Some sudden paces backward reeled, 
Like a stunned warrior on the Held, 
And stood a moment dumb and lost, 
Like one who meets a midnight ghost. 
Then stammered, "If my sight be 

true, 
This is an honor scarcely due. 
To what may I ascribe, strange sirs, 
The presence of such visitors?" 

" To what," cried one, with the voice 

of a gale 
That laughs througb an Allegha- 

nian pine, 
" But to drink your health in good 

red wine 
Till its hue returns to your cheek so 

pale?" 
And then the dozen sturdy men 
Laughed, and brimmed their cups 

again, 
And drained them to the hearty toast 
Of Berkley Manor and its host. 

'Twas hard to see his dear old wines, 
The heart's blood of the noblest vines, 
Poured by a rough and sunburnt hand 
To nourish the souls of a rebel band. 
He heard the very wine's heart throb 
As it flowed from the flask with a sigh 

and a sob ; 
The bubbles that wept around each 

rim 
Looked with imploring eyes at him. 

Then swelled that gusty voice once 

more, 
As the speaker rose full six foet four:— 
"That loyal toast you left unsaid, 
To spare your breath, I propose in- 
stead ; 
And let the craven, who dares, resist 
To drink the toast of a loyalist!" 



22 



254 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



Sir Hugh a moment felt relieved : 
That word, — perchance he had been 

deceived ; 
They surely could no rebels be 
"Who proftered toasts to loyalty, 
A goblet into his hand was thrust, 
Brimming and dripping, and drink he 

must. 

" Here's to our royal governors, 
And every man who such prefers ! 
May Heaven on their advancement 

smile 
In their speedy return to their native 

isle!" 

Before his sense the words explained, 

The lifted cup was wellnigh drained. 

Then burst the intruders' laughter- 
roar, 
"While stood the host with bewil- 
dered brain. 

They rose and bowed, and said no 
more, 

And now behind them slammed the 
door ; 
He heard them descend the river- 
lane 

With laugh and song, and all was o'er. 

They had come like a sudden burst 
of rain, 

And, like a gust, withdrew again, — 

Their voices dying beyond the lawn, 

Like rumbling clouds when the storm 
is gone. 

Then in chagrin he dashed the glass 
Down to the floor, a shattered mass, 
And glared thereon, till, laughing, 

came, 
Queen of the keys, the brave house- 
dame, — 
A woman tall and somewhat sere, 
But, like October, calm and clear; 
Her dark eye still retained its ray, 
Her hair its gloss, though touched 

with gray. 
She cried, " You had strange guests 

to-night, 
And such not often you invite 
Did but the world know who were 

here, 
Tours would a rebel name appear." 

To which Sir Hugh, with anger red, 
" May a thousand plagues light on 
each head ! 



I cannot guess what men they be : 
1 only know they drank my wine: — 
"Would they might hang, a scare- 
crow line, 

On the next lightning-blasted tree!" 

Hulda replied, " Unless I err, 

I heard a voice 1 have heard before : 

Each tone of his is a clinging burr, 

That from the memory will not stir. — 
Though it is full ten years, or more, 
Since last I heard his laughter-roar, 
Or his great stride along the floor, 

I would know, though twice as long 
it were, 

Ringbolt, the wilful wagoner." 

Then, in silence and in gloom, 

The proud man passed to his private 

room , 
And paced the floor, in spirit A<exed, 
With dusky fancies sore perplexed, — 
Thought of his daughter, thought of 

his pride, 
And of a hundred things beside. 
But soon o'er his soul of turbulence 
The quiet stole, and soothed the sense, 
As silence with its hand at last 
Smooths the pool where the storm has 

passed. 

But hark ! — was it the rising wind 
Swinging the boughs on the window- 

" bin id ? 
Or chimney-swallows come anew, 

And talking in the sooty cavern, 
Conversing as room-mate travellers do 
Ere they go to sleep in a wayside 
tavern ? 
Or was it some burglarious crew, 
With many a stealthy gouge and 
scratch, 
Working their way from screw to 
screw, 
Mining around the bolt and latch, 
With jar and screech, by sure degrees, 
Or torturing locks with skeleton keys ? 

His heart beat loud : he spake no word, 

But seized two pistols and a sword ; 

With cautious hand he oped the 
door, — 

It creaked as it never creaked be- 
fore, — 

Then descended the stair; in his soul 
he vowed 

He never knew them to crack so loud. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



255 



At every step he seemed to hear 
The noises more distinct and near; 
Now at the pistol-pans he tapped, 
And cocked the flints, — how loud they 

snapped ! — 
Then followed the sounds with breath- 

less care, 
Here encountered a table, and there a 

chair, 
Till it seemed as if to retard his pace 
Each article had changed its place. 

The wave of every curtain's fold 
Now made his trembling heart less 

hold, 
Lest, issuing from the midnight air, 
His phantom bride should meet him 

there, 
With wild mysterious eyes to peer 
Into his shuddering soul of fear. 

But now he gained the parlor door 
The noise was louder than before, — 
A strange, mad music, — a grate, — a | 

jar,— 
Like a maniac trying to tune a guitar. ! 
By inch and by inch, he opened the J 

door, 
Saw long phantom windows stretch 

over the floor, 
Made by the moon, and in the full 

flood, 
Up at the end where the golden harp 

stood, 
Beheld — and his heart strangely 

thrilled at the sight — 
The cause of the noises, the source 

of his fright. 

He gazed with anger mixed with joy, 
As he beheld the marvellous boy, — 
Anger at the fears unbounded, 
Joy that they had proved unfounded : 
One long relieving breath he drew, 
Then gazed with silent, steadfast view. 

Close to the harp the urchin prest 
And clasped it fondly to his breast, 
Then softly o'er his lingers stirred, 
To wake the tones he late had heard ; 
Now stopped among the bass per- 
plexed, 
Then tried the tinkling treble next; 
Now over all his wild bands sped, 
ben, d 
head : 



His large eyes, wondering, seemed to 

say 
The music had gone with the maid 

away. 
Then he arose, with puzzled air, 
And gazed upon the pictures there, 
Marvelling much that such things 

were, 
All so alive, and yet no stir : 
And now he climbed into the niche 
Where stood the suit of armor rich, 
With golden tracery embossed, 
And gazed on it in wonder lost, 
From head to foot, with searching scan, 
Surveyed the marvellous iron man ; 
Then, with a hand that nothing feared, 
The visor carefully upreared, — 
While Berkley saw, with a shudder 

of dread, 
The horrid yawn of that iron head, — 
Looked calmly in, and nothing saw, 
Then closed it, having felt no awe. 

Methinks to the angel of Peace 

'twould be 
A charmed and sacred sight to see 
A child by an offcast coat of war, 
"Who dreamed not what 'twas fash- 
ioned for. 
Heaven send the time when bloody 

Mars 
Shall only be known among the stars, 
And his armor, with its thousand 

scars, 
In a niche, as a curious thing, be bound, 
And peered into, and nothing found ! 
Oh, would some sweet bird of the 

South » 
Might build in every cannon's month, 
Till the only sound from its rusty 

throat 
Should be the wren's or the blue- 
bird's note, 
That doves might find a safe resort 
In the embrasures of even- fort ! 

Again to the harp the urchin passed, 
x\.nd sat him down, subdued and 
tame, 

And seeming overweighed at last, 
He leaned against the golden frame ; 

His black hair drooped along the 
strings, 

Like a fainting night-bird's wings; 

A long sigh heaved bis tired breast, 

And slumber soothed him into rest. 



256 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



There, like a spirit bright and good, 
The guardian moon above him stood : 
She kissed his cheeks, caressed his 

hair, 
And filled with happy dreams the air, 
Till the smile which o'er his features 

strayed 
The pleasure at his heart betrayed. 

Sir Hugh approached the sleeping- 
child, 

And stood with wondering thoughts 
beguiled. 

How beautiful the picture there ! — 
The gold harp propping the weary 
head, 

The flashing cords, the shadowy hair, 
And over all the moonshine shed ! 

That slumbering face, it touched his 

heart, 
And bade the puzzled memories start ; 
He had seen it in a dream before, — 
A dream long gone, to come no more. 

To keep the weary sleeper warm, 

He spread a mantle where he lay, 
And pressed it softly round his form, 
Then turned with noiseless feet 
away, 
And left him there to dream at 

large, 
The shadows' and the white moon's 
charge. 



THE EISING. 

Out of the North the wild news came, 
Far flashing on its wings of flame, 
Swift as the boreal light which flies 
At midnight through the startled 
skies. 

And there was tumult in the air, 
The fife's shrill note, the drum's 
loud beat, 
And through the wide land every- 
where 
The answering tread of hurrying 
feet, 
While the first oath of Freedom's gun 
Came on the blast from Lexington. 



And Concord, roused, no longer tame, 
Forgot her old baptismal name, 
Made bare her patriot arm of power, 
And swelled the discord of the hour. 

The strife was loud, the time was 

wild, 
When from the sky Heaven's favorite 

child, 
Sweet Liberty, in joy descended ; 
A veil of lightning round her clung, 
Whereon thestarsof morning hung, 
While o'er her head Jove's eagle 
swung, 
With all his thunderbolts attended. 

She came with Victory hand in hand, 
Whose flashing eyes and streaming 
hair 
And gleaming robes and flaming 
brand 
Shot splendor through the dusky 
air, 
And gladdened the awakening land. 

Wild was the night ; but wilder still 
The day which saw those sisters 

bright, 
. In all their beauty and their might, 
Hanging above the battle-stroke, 
Waving like banners through the 
smoke 
That veiled the heights of Bunker 

Hill. 
The field was wellnigh won, when, lo 1 
From the enraged and reeling foe 
Another clmrge, another blow, 

That reached and smote the patriot 
chief. 
Pale Liberty recoiled a pace, 
And for a moment veiled her face ; 
While Victory o'er her hero prest, 
And wildly wept on Warren's breast 

The first tears of her grief 
Alas ! that moment was her cost : — 
When she looked up, the field was 
lost. 

"Lost? lost?" she cried. "It shall 
not be, 
While Justice holds her throne on 
high ! 
By Heaven ! for every martyr dead, 
For every sacred drop here shed 
From out the brave hearts of the free, 
The foe shall doubly bleed and die ! ' ' 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



257 



Such was the voice that fiercely rung 
From brave New England's rocks 

and pines ; 
Such were the notes that echo flung 
Far southward, from its clarion 

tongue, 
Through all the Alleghanian lines; 
And every homestead heard the call, 
And one great answer flamed through 

all. 

Each sacred hearth-stone, deep and 
wide, 
Through many a night glowed 
bright and full; 
The matron's great wheel at its side 

No more devoured the carded wool, 
And now the maiden's smaller wheel 
No longer felt the throbbing tread, 
But stood beside the idle reel 

Among its idle flax and thread. 
No more the jovial song went round, 
No more the ringing laugh was 
heard ; 
But every voice had a solemn sound, 
And some stern purpose filled each 
word 

The yeoman and the yeoman's son, 

With knitted brows andsturdy dint, 
Renewed the polish of each gun, 

Re-oiled the lock, reset the flint; 
And oft the maid and matron there, 
While kneeling in the firelight glare, 
Long poured, with half-suspended 

breath, 
The lead into the moulds of death. 

The hands by Heaven made silken soft 
To soothe the brow of love or pain, 
Alas ! are dulled and soiled too oft 

By some unhallowed earthly stain ; 
But under the celestial bound 
No nobler picture can be found . 
Than woman, brave in word and deed, 
Thus serving in her nation's need : 
Her love is with her country now, 
Her hand is on its aching brow. 



THE BRAVE AT HOME. 

, I. 

The maid who binds her warrior's sash 
With smile that well her pain dis- 
sembles, 



The while beneath her drooping lash 
One starry tear-drop hangs and 
trembles, 
Though Heaven alone records the 
tear, 
And Fame shall never know her 
story, 
Her heart has shed a drop as dear 
As e'er bedewed the field of glory ! 



IT. 



The wife who girds her husband's 
sword, 
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
And bravely speaks the cheering 
word, 
What though her heart be rent 
asunder, 
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
The bolts of death around him 
rattle, 
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er 
AVas poured upon the field of battle ! 



in. 

The mother who conceals her grief 
While to her breast her son she 
presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and 
brief, 
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
With no one but her secret God 
To know the pain that weighs upon 
her, 
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 
Received on Freedom's field of 
honor ! 



Within its shade of elm and oak 

The church of Berkley Manor 
stood : 
There Sunday found the rural folk, 

And some esteemed of gentle blood. 
In vain their feet with loitering tread 

Passed 'mid the graves where rank 
is naught : 

All could not read the lesson taught 
In that republic of the dead. 



22 : 



253 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, 
The vale with peace and sunshine 
full, 
"Where all the happy people walk, 
Decked in their homespun flax and 
wool ! 
Where youths' gay hats with blos- 
soms bloom ; 
And every maid, with simple art, 
Wears on her breast, like her own 
heart, 
A bud whose depths are all perfume ; 
While every garment's gentle stir 
Is breathing rose and lavender. 

There, veiled in all the sweets that are 
Blown from the violet's purple 

bosom, 
The scent of lilacs from afar, 

Touched with the sweet shrub's 

spicy blossom, 
"Walked Esther ; and the rustic 

ranks 
Stood on each side like flowery 

banks, 
To let her pass, — a blooming aisle, 
Made brighter by her summer smile: 
On her father's arm she seemed to be 
The last green bough of that haughty 

tree. 

The pastor came ; his snowy locks 
Hallowed his brow of thought and 
care ; 
And, calmly as shepherds lead their 
flocks, 
He led into the house of prayer. 
Forgive the student Edgar there 
If his enchanted eyes would roam, 
And if his thoughts soared not be- 
yond, 
And if his heart glowed warmly 
fond 
Beneath his hopes' terrestrial dome. 
To him the maiden seemed to stand, 
Veiled in the glory of the morn, 
At the bar of the heavenly bourn, 
A guide to the golden holy land. 
When came the service' low response, 
Hers seemed an angel's answering 
tongue ; 
When with the singing choir she sung, 
O'er all the rest her sweet notes 

rung, 
As if a silver bell were swung 
'Mid bells of iron and of bronze. 



At times, perchance, — oh, happy 
chance 1 — 
Their lifting eyes together met, 
Like violet to violet, 
Casting a dewy greeting glance. 
For once be Love, young Love, for- 
given, 
That here, in a bewildered trance, 
He brought the blossoms of ro- 
mance 
And waved them at the gates of 
heaven. 

The pastor rose : the prayer was 

strong ; 
The psalm was warrior David's song ; 
The text, a few short words of might, — 
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the 



He spoke of wrongs too long endured, 
Of sacred rights to be secured ; 
Then from his patriot tongue of 

flame 
The startling words for Freedom 

came. 
The stirring sentences he spake 
Compelled the heart to glow or quake, 
And, rising on his theme's broad wing, 
And grasping in his nervous hand 
The imaginary battle-brand, 
In face of death he dared to fling 
Defiance to a tyrant king. 

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
In eloquence of attitude, 
Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher ; 
Then swept his kindling glance of fire 
From startled pew to breathless choir ; 
When suddenly his mantle wide 
His hands impatient flung aside, 
And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes 
Complete in all a warrior's guise. 12 

A moment there was awful pause, — 
W T hen Berkley cried, "Cease, 

traitor ! cease ! 
God's temple is the house of peace!" 
The other shouted, " Nay, not so, 
When God is with our righteous 
cause : 
His holiest places then are ours, 
His temples are our forts and towers 
That frown upon the tyrant foe : 
In this the dawn of Freedom's day 
There is a time to fight and pray 1" 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



251) 



And now before the open door — 

The warrior-priest hud ordered so — 
The enlisting trumpet's sudden soar 
Rang through thechapel, o'er and o'er, 

Its long reverberating blow, 
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
Of dusty death must wake and hear. 
And there the startling drum and life 
Fired the living with fiercer life ; 
While overhead, with wild increase, 
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, 
r - The great bell swung as ne'er before : 
It seemed as it would never cease; 
And every word its ardor flung 
From off its jubilant iron tongue 
Was, -War! War ! War!" 

" Who dares" — this was the patriot's 
cry, 
As striding from the desk he came — 
" Come out with me, in Freedom's 
name, 
For her to live, for her to die ?" 
A hundred hands flung up reply, 
A hundred voices answered, "//" 



VII. 

THE WREATH. 

How sweet it is when day is new, 
And Summer is bathed in her young 

de w , 
To contemplate, 'twixt sun and sod, 
Each miracle that tells of God ! 

Thus Edgar mused in dreamy mood, 
Next morn, on the upland solitude, 
As, slow.lv pacing, he gained the site 
Of the one great oak that crowned 

the height. 
He threw him on a mossy mound, 
His whole soul flooded with the 

sense 
Of that delightful recompense 
Which ever in the fields is found, 
Which lifts the heart when tempest- 
bowed, 
And sets the rainbow on the cloud. 
He saw the river where it flowed 
Under the morn, a golden road, — 
Saw ships upon that highway free 
Moving out to a boundless sea. 
He saw the mist-dispelling sun 
Mount, proudly conscious there was 
none 



Sceptred beside himself, to hold 
High state upon that throne of gold, 
And thought of Freedom's glorious 

light 
Conquering the dull mists of night. 
He-saw the moon with anxious stare 
Walk down the cloudless western 

air, 
Seeking the stars with pale dismay, 

Like a shepherdess whose flocks 
From the fields have gone astray 

Among dusky woods and rocks, 
In the wilderness to roam, 
Till the eve shall bring them home. 
But he thought decaying Tyranny 

Might search for his lost flock in 
vain. 
Those stars now seeking to be free 

No gloomy eve should bring again. 

Long, long he gazed on Berkley Hall, 
And then on his native cottage 

small, — 
The one embowered in tall, proud 

trees, 
The one with its woodbine porch and 

bees ; 
And never before they struck his sense 
With such a hopeless •difference. 
He felt how often heart from heart 
Are kept by the mason's walls apart, 
Even though the doors were open, free, 
As Wealth can afford his doors to be. 

Gliding along the garden-walks, 
Gathering blossoms from the stalks, 
He saw the heiress of Berkley Hall, 
And fancied he heard the rise and fall 
Of the melody he knew must be 
Flooding her lips incessantly: 
For song was native to her tongue 
As to a runnel valeward flung, 
As wind to a cloud, as mist to a fall, 
As dew to the rose, and as sunshine 

to all. 
His full heart ached with love's sweet 

pain, 
Like a sealed fountain, charged with 

rain, 
That longs to sing in the summer air, 
Yet faints in its cavern of despair. 

From plot to bower, from vase to vase, 
Down to the very garden-base, 



He 



watched 
pace; 



her gliding, fawnlike 



260 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



The branches bowed to her forehead 

fair 
And shed their blooms on her golden 

hair. 

Oh, what is so. like an embodied 

May 
As a frolic maiden, with laughter 

g a .v> 

Chasing her fancies as they flit 
Out of her heart of innocent wit, 
Shrining herself in the blowing 

bowers, 
Her tresses flecked with falling 

flowers ? 

Heaven, when I am old and bent 
And into the valley death ward sent, 
Be the last sweet vision which charms 

my way 
A breathing, bright, embodied May, 
That, while I lean upon my staff, 

1 may see her smile and hear her 

laugh, 
That my heart may be fresh, till its 

life is null, 
With the sun and the dew of the 

beautiful ! 

A tree blown bright with summer 

blooms, 
O'errun with honeysuckle-vines, 
A very fount of sweet perfumes, 
Stood in the garden, where the bees 
Toiled ever in these murmurous 

mines : 
And Edgar might have envied these ; 
For some which mined that odorous 

store 
Brought back their sweets to his 

father's door. 

Around this tree a stair-way led 
Into the branches overhead, 
And there, 'mid spreading antler- 
boughs, 
A little room was fitted well, 
"Where a votaress might make her 
vows 
Secure within her flowery cell. 

Such a one there stands to-day 
In a poet's garden far away, 
Where on many an afternoon, 
His great soul full of marvellous tune, 
Cloistered among flowers and leaves, 
He sings, and all the world receives. 



Lightly up the vine-like stair, 
Light of heart and light of foot, 

Flitted the maiden into the bower. 

Never in enchanted air 

Held a vine so fair a flower 
Or tree so sweet a fruit. 

She sat; the flickering sun and shade 
Like winged sprites about her played: 
The wren peered in with curious eye, 
The bluebird carolled closely by, 
The robin from her nest above 
Looked, and resumed her task of love. 

The maiden's lap was full of flowers, 
Culled from the lavish garden-bowers. 
'Mid these her Angers gayly played 
Entwining happy shade with shade, 
And, as she wrought the flowers 

among, 
Her sweet thoughts rippled into song. 



The blue-eyed lady of the morn, 
While she wreathes her flowers of 

light, 
Knows for whom those flowers are 
bright, 
By whom they shall be worn : 
She knows the golden locks of Day 
Shall bear that flashing wreath away. 



II. 



Though she knows their shape and 
hue 
May be crushed and tarnished soon, 
And the battle-heat of noon 

Waste their precious dew, 

Yet she knows when Day is through 

He shall wear his wreath anew. 



III. 

Would I knew some hero now ! 

He should wear the wreath 1 make. 

Not for mine, but Freedom's sake, 
I would deck his brow : 
Should his arm victorious prove, 
He should wear the wreath of love. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGIIANIES. 



2G1 



IY. 

Should he fall, I would outgrieve 
All who ever grief possessed; 
I would* weep upon his breast, 

Overveiled like dewy eve, 

And above my hero dead 

Pour my tears till life had fled. 

The music on its golden wing 
Dropt from those dewy lips of spring : 
Scarce had the cadence ceased to flow, 

There was a sound of footsteps 
fleet, 
And suddenly, with cheeks aglow, 

Young Edgar knelt before her feet. 
She started with .-urprise — not fear — 
To find the stranger youth so near. 
He read the question in her eye, 
And, ere she spoke, he made reply : — 

" Oh, lady, if I err, forgive : 
I know not, scarcely, if I live, 
Or that it is my soul is drawn 
By witching music, on and on, 
To kneel to thee in holier guise, 
While its poor dwelling yonder lies ! 
I was as one within a land 

Where all he sees is dead and sere, 
Who droops with thirst, till near at 
hand 

He hears a fountain singing clear, 
Then, without further question, flies 
To find the spring which life supplies. 
In sooth, the music drew me near, 
And left me, lady, kneeling here. 
I heard the wish your song expressed, 
And echo answered in my breast. 
Oh, bid me wear that wreath you 

make, 
For thine as well as Freedom's sake!" 

The maiden's lips no word replied ; 

But still the youth could well de- 
scry 

That there was pleasure in her eye 
And that her cheek was double-dyed. 

A moment, with extended hands, 

She held the precious wreath in air, 
Looked in his face her sweet com- 
mands, 
Then pressed it on her hero's hair, 
And would have fled with girlish 

hound, 
But suddenly a whirring sound 



Made her light foot recoil a pace, 
And drove the roses from her face. 

A winged arrow fiercely near 

Had lightly grazed the stranger's ear, 

Dislodged one garland- bloom, and 

sunk 
Quivering in the gnarled trunk, 
And firmly there the angry dart 
Transfixed the blossom's odorous 

heart. 

Her flashing eye the maiden turned : 
One hurried glance the truth dis- 
cerned. 
Near by, upon the gravel path, 
Holding his attitude of wrath, 
The wild-eyed boy defiant stood. 
His black hair in a flashing flood 
Flung back, the quivering bow's ad- 
vance, 
The right hand to the shoulder 
drawn, 
The knitted brow, the fiery glance 
Still following where the dart had 
gone, — 
He looked the great Apollo's child, 
Born in a forest dark and wild. 

A moment thus his posture kept 
The young soul burning in his face, 
Then suddenly, as in disgrace, 

He flung him on the grass and wept. 

Her heart was moved, her pity stirred : 
She fled to him as flies a bird 
Which hears its lonely fledgling call ; 

She raised his head," smoothed back 
his hair, 

Looked in his eyes of wild despair. 
He smiled, and she forgave him all, 
Then led him calmly up the lawn, 
Glanced at the bower, — the youth was 
gone. 

Young Edgar passed the garden-gate 

With dazzled brain and heart elate ; 

The very landscape seemed to quiver, 
As if the burning pulse of love 
Was throbbing in the sky above, 

Thrilling the forest, field, and river. 

His spirit's wings had sudden birth ; 
He felt beneath no heavy earth : 
He trod as on a field of air, 
: And the flowers like stars shone every- 
where. 



262 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



Down through the grove he gained 

the stream, 
Which flowed before him like a dream, 
Its ripples whispering to the shore, 
And love their burden evermore ; 
Stream, flower, and tree, and breeze, 

and bird, 
Were eloquent with that one word. 

He knelt, with very joy o'erweighed, 
Beneath a flowering poplar's shade, 
And seized the corona) and kissed 
The blossoms (Love must have 

his will), 
And held them to his lips until 
His eyes were full of blissful mist, 
Through which the bright scene 

brighter shone 
In iris colors all his own. 
Then solemnly the flowers he prest 
Beneath the crossed hands on his 

breast, 
And cried, "In face of Death and 

Heaven, 
This sacred wreath by thee was given, 

And it shall not dishonored be! 
Here, in face of Heaven and Death, 

I pledge my life, my latest breath, 
To .Freedom and to thee 1" 

"A valiant oath, — and nobly sworn !" 
Exclaimed a voice of thunder near ; 
" And, if it be no idle boast, 
Go forth to-day, and take your post: 
For hark ! 'tis Freedom's bugle-horn 
Which summons you from here ! 

II Mount yonder steed, — unless I err, 
He will not wait for whip or spur, — 
And I have one as good beside. 

'Tis well : we both have far to ride." 

The youth sprang up. The speaker's 

height 
Loomed o'er him like a cloud of 

night : 
The palm on Edgar's shoulder flung 
In friendship, wellnigh made him 

reel : 
The pledging right hand ached and 

stung, 
Grasped in the wagoner's grip of 

steel. 

" Our place of secret rendezvous," 
He said, " is only known to few, — 



A cavern in a wild ravine, 

Hid by the friendly oak and vine, 
Where naught is heard but the 
Brandy wine, 

Which rolls a shadowy flood between ; 

A hidden place, that well might be 
The stronghold of a robber crew : 

Of such persuasion are not we, 
Save in our royal tyrant's view. 

" Your guide I cannot be to-day ; 
My course lies far another way ; 
But there is one will guide you true : 

Alread}', with a heart of joy, 
By yonder wall he waits for you, 
Henceforth your friend, — the frolic 
boy. 
Mount you, and place the youth be- 
hind, — 
The wildest steed may carry 
double, — 
And in the holsters you will find 
Two trusty guards in case of trouble. 

"And when you meet the wild-e} T ed 

dame 

Who reigns within our secret place, 

If she looks strangely in your face, 

Speak kindly, — simply name my 

name, — 
That my command has brought you 
hence ; 
No further it behooves to know : 
'Twere well you give her no offence : 

She may be Well, no matter : 

go." 

They parted, and the youth obeyed, 
And when the friendly evening laid 
Concealment over rock and wave, 
He gained the river and the cave. 13 



PAET II. 



THE YOUNG PATKIOT. 

Three years the flying sun and shade 
O'er Berkley Hall their change had 
cast, 

Since the wild urchin and the maid 
Within its loyal portal passed. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



2G3 



Two years the invader's war-alarms 
Had waked the land, which still 
defied, 

And oft the gleam of patriot arms 
From Berkley's turret was descried. 

Upon his central roof a tower 

Eose and o'erlooked the country 
wide, — 
A place scarce fit for lady's bower ; 

Tor there was seen, on every side, 
Many a cast-off cont of war, 
Helmet and sword, with hack and 

scar, 
"With guns and pistols crosswise hung, 
O'er which the dust of years was flung. 

And there through many a changeful 
hour 
The anxious father and the maid 
Through telescopic glass surveyed 
The impending cloud of battle lower ; 
They watched it move o'er land and 
stream, 
They saw the white sails come and 
go, 
And all the flashing splendor gleam 
Along the bristling plains below. 

There had they gazed through one 

long day, 
"Watching an army glide away 
Beyond the city's western side, — 
So far, the line was scarce descried ; 
But Esther knew a nation's trust 
Marched there in that long cloud of 

dust. 

"Thank Heaven!" the loyalist ex- 
claimed, 

"They are gone! — our city is re- 
claimed, 

And England's banner now may fly, 

To gladden every loyal eye !" 

But now a voice, like a clarion clear, 
Kang laughing in the speaker's ear : — 
" I saw him ! and your vaunt is 

vain : 
I saw him and his warrior train : 
Had you beheld that hero host, 
Your fears had not allowed the boast." 

"Who dared in Berkley's presence 

proud 
Speak rebel words so fierce and loud ? 



Sir Hugh his hand in anger laid 
Upon the handle of his blade ; 
But when he saw the wild-eyed boy, 
And gazed upon his face of joy, 
The vengeance in his breast was 
stayed. 

Then, with a tremor on his tongue, 

While something paler grew his 
cheek, 
As some retarding memory clung 

On the rebuke he fain would speak, 
He said, " Kash boy, beware ! beware ! 

You put my kindness to the proof. 
Is it for this my three years' care 

Has sheltered you beneath my roof? 
Is it for this " He said no more : 

He saw the tear, the brow of pain, — 
A look which he had seen before, 

And one he would not see again. 

" Nay, Ugo, nay!" the maiden cried, 
Her two hands clasping his be- 
tween ; 

Her tender eyes to his replied, 

And straightway all his troubled 
mien 

Grew bright, as when the iris form 

Glows on the cloud that threatened 
storm. 

" Nay, Ugo, nay : speak out, and 
say 

The things which you have seen to- 
day." 

"Him have I seen," the boy ex- 
claimed, 

"Yes, him! — what, needs he to be 
named? 

The world has only one broad sun, 

And Freedom's world but Washing- 
ton." 

Even while he spake that fiery word, 
The stripling's stature seemed to 
grow ; 
All his young hero spirit stirred 

Sent to his cheek the warrior glow : 
Save the same look, which knew no 
awe, 
Learned on his native mountains 

wild, 
You scarcely longer saw the child 
Which thrice a twelvemonth past you 
saw. 



264 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



"Him have I seen! — oh, sight to 
cheer 

The patriot when he bleeding lies, 
To kindle hope and scatter fear, 

And light new lire in dying eyes ! 

" His way with banners waved and 
burned ; 
The welkin rang with patriot 
cheers ; 
From every window fondly yearned 
Bright eyes thut spoke their joy in 
tears. 

" And music round his pathway flung 
Its gladness in a silver shower, 

And over all the great bells swung, 
Shouting their joy from every 
tower. 

" The snow-white war-horse he be- 
strode 
Stept conscious, with a soul of 
flame, 
As if he knew his master rode 

Straight to the glorious gates of 
Fame. 

" The coldest gazer's heart grew 
warm, 

And felt no more its indecision ; 
For every soul which saw that form 

Grew larger to contain the vision. 

"I watched the long, long ranks go 

by, 14 
And saw defiance in every eye ; 
And every soldier true and stanch 
Wore in his cap a vernal branch, 
As Victory had placed it there 
For Fame to twine about his hair. 

"Oh, how the wild heart sent its 

blood 
Through all the frame, a throbbing 

flood, 
To see those spirits, true and tried, 
"Who crossed at night the roaring 

tide, 
"What time the grinding gulfs of 

ice 
Made all the desperate peril thrice, 
"When nothing but a patriot's fire 
Could breast the winter's bitter ire, — 
Who barefoot trod December's snow, 
And took the hirelings at a blow ! 



"You should have seen that stream 
of life 
Westward go and eastward come, 
Thrilled and cheered by the startling 
fife, 
Throbbed through and through by 
many a drum. 

"There, on his charger fierce and 
tall, 

A fiery stallion black as night, 
His bold front overtopping all, — 

A very tower along the right, — 
With eye that death could not deter, 

His rifle o'er his shoulder flung, 

Two pistols in his holsters hung, 
Rode Kingbolt, the wild wagoner. 

" They who have seen that mighty 
hand, 
And heard the swearing of his whip, 
May well conceive the giant grip 

That wielded the commanding brand. 

" There, like a son by his warrior sire, 

And mounted on a steed as good, 
His eye aflame with patriot tire, 

His cheek aflush with patriot blood, 
Eode Edgar, and the leaves of green 
Set in his cap had a rose between ; 
I knew not what the intent might be : 
Perchance 'twas there for memory. 

" And after these a hundred more, 
Obedient to the wagoner's word, 
As fierce a band as ever bore 

Through fire and flood the aveng- 
ing sword. 
These were his 'mountain eagles,' — 
these, 
So often seen a flying cloud 
That sweeps the hills through forest- 
trees, 
Following their leader loud, — 
A cloud whose form 
Is a whirlwind storm, 
When on the flanks 
Of the foeman's ranks 
It breaks from upland covert near, 
And pours its sudden bolts of wrath, 
Then gains anew the secret path 
Ere it is said, ' The storm is here !' 
Pale wonder strikes the columns wide, 
And, ere the foe can count his slain, 
Thundering down the other side 
The swooping tempest strikes again. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



265 



" But \ T esterday I heard their tramp, 

And saw their chargers dashing 
down, 

Each wild mane like a "banner 
blown : 

They swam the river, leapt the 
creek, 
And o'er the near hills gained the 
camp, 

Bearing the news from Chesa- 
peake." 

So spake the youth. The maid near by 
Sat gazing in his clear, dark eye, 
As if she saw in its depths, anew, 
The whole bright pageant passing 

through. 
But Berkley frowned his blackest 

frown, 
As that would put the rebel down, 
And cried, " Well, sir, and is this all ? 
The picture you would have us view 
Is rare, and colored somewhat new : 
Methinks 'twere easier to recall 
That barefoot, tattered, hungry 
crew 
Quartered but now near Berkley Hall. 
The farmers' planted fields forlorn 
Will make a poor return of corn, 
And thievish birds wax fat, I fear, 
Since all the scarecrows volun- 
teer !" 
And he laughed the bitter laugh of 
scorn, 
So grating to a patriot's ear. 

" You know so well how a rebel feels 
Fresh from his sty of mire and 

straw, 
While dangling, tangling 'twixt his 
. heels 
Is dragged the sword he dares not 

draw : 
Gird on this brand, and let us see 
The brave young rebel you would 

be!" 
So speaking, he took from its place 

of dust 
A blade whose scabbard was thick 

with rust : — 
" And this chapeau, for many a year 
Untouched among the cobwebs here, — 
The webs may serve you yet for lint ; 

This ancient gun, 

With rust o'errun, — 
It matters not the loss of flint : 



A pistol or so to grace your side ; 
This old flask, too : — be naught denied 
To deck you in your warrior pride ! 
Behold you now ! By Heaven, you 

stand 
As fair a rebel as walks the land !" 

Again the bitter laugh was flung 
From off the old man's scornful 
tongue. 

The youth a moment glared in doubt, 
Keddening like one who stands at 
bay ; 
But presently burst his laughter- 
shout, 
And, crying, "Then be it as you 

_ say i" 
Wildly sprang from the tower 
away. 

They heard him descend the echoing 

stair, 
And Berkley stood with wondering 

air, 
Listening with wide eyes and lips, 
Like a traveller on Vesuvius' top 
When his adventurous hand lets 

drop 
A stone into the yawning pit: 
From rock to rock he hears it flit, 
Till the noises die in a far eclipse. 

But, when the clattering sounds were 

past, 
Sir Hugh stood with the look aghast 
Of a sire who has held his favorite 

boy> 
In frolic, only to fright and annoy, 
Over a precipice wild and deep, 
W T hen, with a sudden and desperate 

leap, 
The child is gone! and the father 

stands, 
Stunned and staring, with empty 

hands. 



RUST ON THE SWOED. 

happy and secure retreat, 

Dear Valley, home of many friends ! 

1 envy even the hurried feet 
Which fancy through your quiet 

sends ! 



23 



266 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



There led of old the Cambrian swain 
His flock by flowery brook and 
rill, 
Flinging across the summer plain 
The song he learned on Snuwdon's 
hill,— 
Perchance some fragmentary strain 
Of ancient Merlin's wizard skill. 

His language now no longer breathes 
Its strange, wild music through the 
scene, 
But here and there a name still 
wreathes 
His memory in perpetual green. 
Tredytt'rin, Cain, and Nantmeal hold 
Traditions of those sires of old ; 
While Uwchlan, in her inmost vale, 
May hear at eve some Cambrian tale. 

Though many a brave ancestral name 

Has, starlike, in the distance set, 
Still thou hast others dear to Fame, 

Forgetful Time shall not forget, — 
Bright memories which shall long re- 
main 

Cherished by every patriot breast, — 

That of the calm-browed painter 
West, 
And his, the fiery-hearted Wayne; 
And in thy scientific bowers 

Are those which fear nor frost nor 
sun : 
There, written with immortal flowers, 

Are found such names as Darling- 
ton. 
Nor dost thou need my hand to fling 

The poet's offering on thy shrine : — 
Among thy vales sweet minstrels sing 

Like thine own flashing Brandy- 
wine. 
From Ken net, Taylor's soaring strain 

Rings like a silver bugle round, 
As if on that near battle-plain 

Some herald's clarion he had found. 

'Twas midnight in the secret cave, 
Darkness and silence reigning, save 
The dreary muttering of the brands 

That flickered where a caldron 
hung ; 
"While dreaming near, with folded 
hands, 

A woman sat, no longer young : — 
No longer young, — or rather say 
Her first youth only passed away. 



Her hair, as by a wind thrown back, 
Was glossy still, and thick and black ; 
Her brow was clear, save where the 

brain 
Had set its outward seal of pain. 
Her cheek was tanned, her eve was 

bright 
With something of unearthly light. 
A string of mingled bead and shell, 
Which seemed of woodland life to tell, 
Entwined her head, and round her 

waist 
A costly wampum belt was placed ; 
While on her tawny neck and arm 
Hung amulet and bracelet charm. 
Her robes of mingled cloth and fur 
With beads and quills embroidered 

were : 
And thus in her wild forest dress 
She looked an Indian prophetess, 
With still a something in her face, 

And something in her slender mien, 
Beyond the finest savage grace 

That ever marked a chieftain's 

queen. 

There sat she gazing, dreamy-eyed, 
As if within the flame she spied 
Visions of scenes long past and gone, 
Or some strange pleasure yet to dawn 
But now her quick ear caught a 

sound, — 
A stealthy footfall drawing near : 
A light hare tripping o'er the ground 
Would wake her eye, but not her 

fear : 
Still through the leaves it came 

more clear, — 
Her hand was on the rifle laid, 
Her quick glance pierced the cavern's 

shade ; 
But soon the well-known whisper 

came, 
Giving the watchword and her name: 
"Hist, Nora! — hist! 'tis I!" — she 

bade 
Young Ugo enter undismayed. 

A moment in his laughing eye 

She gazed, then scanned his strange 

attire : 
His figure brightened by the fire, 
His shadow looming darkly high, 
The sword, the gun, the pistols, hat, — 
With questioning look she stared 
thereat. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



267 



" Say, II go, say, where was the theft ? 
"What loyalist have you bereft ?" 

" No theft," the boy indignant cried, 
" But gift of one who bade me don 
These rebel arms, and urged me on, 
Until, to please him, 1 complied; 
But who, or where, or when, or how, 
The question matters little now. . 
Come, Nora,— you were ever good, — 
I only ask a little food, 
And then your helping hand to-night 
To make this old sword somewhat 

bright ; 
While on these pistols I renew 
The polish which is still their due, 
And from the gun remove the crust 
Of honorable dust and rust ; 
For well I know the time is near — 
The scene, too, not o'er far from 

here — 
When every weapon we can wield 
Shall be most dear to Freedom's 
field." 

She gave him food with generous 

hand, 
And then essayed to cleanse the 

brand ; 
And, while she wrought the blade 

along, 
She cheered her toiling hand with 

somr. 



SONG. 



Oh, sweet is the sound of the shuttle 

and loom 
When the lilies of peace fill the land 

with perfume ! 
Then cheerily echoes the axe from the 

hill, 
While the bright waters sing on the 

wheel of the mill, 
And the anvil rings out like a bell 

through the day, 
And the wagoner's song cheers his 

team on the way, 
Till the bugles sound here, and the 

drums rattle there, 
And the banners of War stream afar 

on the air. 



ii. 



Then wild is the hour, and fearful the 

day, 
When the shuttle is dropt for the 

sword and the fray, 
When the woodman is felling a foe at 

each stroke, 
And the miller is blackened with 

powder and. smoke, 
When the smith wields the blade in 

his terrible grip, 
And the wagoner's rifle cracks true 

as his whip : 
The bugles sound here, and the drums 

rattle there, 
While the banners of War stream 

afar on the air. 



Our brave-hearted yeomen, — our lords 

of the soil, — 
They reap where they sow the reward 

of their toil ; 
In the broad field of labor their harvest 

is blithe, 
Their favorite arms the plough, sickle, 

and scythe : 
The plough and the sickle, the scythe 

and the flail, — 
These, these are their weapons, with 

these they prevail, 
Till the bugles sound here, and the 

drums rattle there, 
And the banners of War stream afar 

on the air. 

IV. 

Then the plough-horse is mounted, 

and flies o'er the plain, 
The blade is flung by in the grass or 

the grain, 
And the hand that grew strong on 

the flail or the plough, 
And battled alone with the harvest 

till now, 
The rifle and sword can as steadily 

wield, 
Till the harvest of foemen is swept 

from the field ; 
While the bugles sound here, and the 

drums rattle there, 
And the banners of War stream afar 

on the air. 



268 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



Be God on our side in the season of 

dread ! 
Be His strength with the living, His 

peace with the dead ; 
His love shield the widow and orphan, 

His care 
Soothe the parents whose sorrow shall 

whiten their hair ; 
Be success with the right when the 

struggle is through, 
And the sword he returned to the 

ploughshare anew, 
And no hugle sound here, and no 

drum rattle there, 
"While the banners of Peace stream 

afar on the air ! 

Thus, singing strenuously, she toiled 

To cleanse the blade which Time had 
soiled. 

The dull stains clung unto the steel, 
As they were spots of murderous 
red 

"Whose stubborn hue must needs re- 
veal 
The crime when first that blood 
was shed. 

She knelt before the midnight flame, 
Which seemed to leap with pleas- 
ure new : 

She gazed, — a chill ran through her 
frame 
As if a spectre met her view : 

She saw the Berkley arms and name 

Slow struggling through the veil of 
rust, 

Then swooned, and sank into the dust. 

But Ugo's aid was instant there : 

He raised her head upon his knee, 
Called her by name, smoothed back 

her hair, 
Looked with a face of mute despair 

On hers of pallid agony. 
At length a breath came full and 

deep, 
And then, as one who walks in sleep 
And sees with large unwavering eyes 
Through veils of awful mysteries, 
She stared, and sighed, " O Heaven ! 

'tis done ! — 
"Where fought the two there stands 

but one :" 



Then passed her hand across her brow, 
And looked in theo'erbending face, 

Which still its pitying posture kept : — 

" O Ugo, do not leave me now !" 
She groaned. "It is a dreary 
place ! ' ' 

Then bowed her head and wept. 

" Go, lay her on her couch apart !" 
The deep voice made the hearers start. 
She choked the tears back to her heart, 
And mounted like a wounded deer 



" Good Nora, we have much to do," 
Said Ringbolt, " yet no need of you. 
Our eagle troop will soon be here : 
They tether now their horses near. 
The boy our sentinel watch can keep, 
So to your couch awhile and sleep. 

"Unless the storm should pass, or 
pause, 
Which hangs in thunder o'er the 

land, 
Ere set of many suns, your hand 
May do good service in our cause. 

"All night the well-piled fire must 
glow, 
All night the molten lead be 

poured, 
Our guns recleaned, resharped the 
sword, 
In honor of the approaching foe ; 
And if it be, as beldams say, 

The devil feasts when tyrants fall, 
Let his infernal board straightway 
Be spread, with room enough for 
all!" 



A BURIAL. 

Round all the wide horizon's bar 
There lay no growing cloud to mar 

The brightness of the autumn day ; 
And yet the soft air felt the jar 
Of thunder rolling from afar, 15 

And shuddered in its pale dismay. 

Berkley, with anxious eye and ear, 
Stood on the southern porch to hear, 
Disturbed with many a doubt and fear, 
As rolled the distant roaring in ; 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



269 



Then to his tower he mounted high, 
And searched through all the cloud- 
less sky : 
All, all was clear, while still came 
by 
The rumble of the constant din. 

Was direful war the sudden source ? 
"Was it for this the rebel force 
Had ta'en hut now their southward 
course ? 

The sound his fears too well define ! 
It is, it is the cannon's mouth ! 
Its awful answer from the south 
Bears tidings of the roaring ranks 
That crash upon the trembling banks, 

The crimson banks, of Brandy wine. 

Pale Esther, in that gloomy tower, 
Strained her sad vision's fruitless 

power : 
On every sound she seemed to hear 

The shout and groan together swell ; 

At every burst that came more clear, 

She deemed her hero Edgar fell, — 

Fell, and perchance had breathed his 

last 
Long ere the death-announcing blast, 
Speeding through miles of frighted 

air, 
His dying sigh to her could bear. 

Still hearkening, gazing far abroad, 
Some sign of triumph to discover, 

All day she poured her prayer to God 
To shield her country and her lover. 

And Berkley, listening to the fight, 
Kemembered Trenton's direful night, 
And that it was the same fierce train 

Whose lengthy line he saw of late 
Pour from the city o'er the plain, 

Led by a leader bold and great, 
Who now upon that roaring field 
Might cause once more their flag to 
yield. 

His heart, misgiving, sank away, 
Shuddering through the doubtful 

day : 
And should the rebels win, what 

then ?— 
The troops were bold and desperate 

men : 
And he remembered with affright 
The terrors of that startling night 



What time a rude and lawless crew 
(All such he deemed the patriot 

lines) 
Intruded on his midnight view 

And drank his dearest, noblest 

wines : 
His frame was agued through and 

through 
Lest that wild scene should come 

anew. 

" Ho ! gardener, hostler, coachman ! — 
ho! 
Each man whose hand can wield a 

spade ! 
A place of safety must be made : 
Bring shovels, hoes, and picks, and 
show 
How you can ply the digging trade. " 
When Berkley's will was thus con- 
veyed, 
Down came the gardener and his 
man, 
The hostler and the hostler's lad, 
The coachman and the footman ran, 
And each his delving orders had. 

" Dig me a pit !" the master cried, 
" And let it be both deep and wide, 
As 'twere a grave that might contain 
A score or more of rebels slain. 
But they for whom this grave is made 
Belong unto a nobler grade, 
With better blood than ever ran 
In purple veins of outlaw clan. 
Their royal genealogic lines 
Come down the Old World's antique 
vines : 

Ho, butler ! my good sacristan, 
Bear out our monarch king of wines, 
Old Port, in all his purple pride, 
With queenly Sherry at his side, 

Followed by all their loyal train, 
The brave, light-hearted German 

knights 
Whose birth was on the Bhenish 
heights, 

The well-beloved of Charlemagne, 
And all those maids whose bright 

eyes glance 
In memory of their native France. 
Here, give them to their parent mould 

Till peace has stilled this rebel 
strife ; 
Then doubly bright and doubly bold 

Shall be their renovated life." 



23* 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



Sir Hugh, thus making mournful 
mirth, 
That poorly cloaked his trembling 

fear, — 
It may be with a secret tear, — 
Consigned his precious wines to earth : 
'Tvvas midnight ere thev smoothed 

away 
All traces where his treasures lay. 



'Twas midnight, and a moon in 
heaven, 
And silence over stream and hill, 
Save where the lone bird's song was 
given, 
Or aspens, with a whispering thrill, 
Seemed sheltering some young wind 

benighted, 
Late from the battle-field affrighted. 
The moon which through the window 
gazed 
Saw Esther 'gainst her harp re- 
clining, 
Her pale and prayerful face upraised, 
And each eye with a tear-drop 
shining. 

Her prophet-heart foreboding well 
The fate which to that field befell, 
Her fingers trembled on the string, 
And thus her prayerful song took 
wing. 



SONG, 
i. 

God, o'er all this blooming earth 
Is it with thine approving eye 

That every flower of noble birth 
Must bow to poisonous weeds, or 
die? 



Through all our pastures must there 
run 
The bramble which no fruitage 
bears ? 
Must every field which loves the sun 
Be arrogant with choking tares ? 



Must every tree whose leaves divine 
Were made in Freedom's air to 
spread, 
Be clasped by the obnoxious vine 
Until its boughs are sapped and 
dead? 



IV. 



Wilt thou not send some mighty hand 

To sweep through these "entangled 

walks, 

To root the proud weeds from the land 

And burn the rank and thorny 

stalks ? 

A moment now she paused, and 
sighed, 
Her hand still on the quivering 

cords, 
As waiting the ensuing words, 
When, at the open casement wide, 
A voice in patriot tones replied : — ■ 

"Yes, God hath sent that arm of 
' wrath : 
It sweeps the land with sword of 
fire : 
The poisonous weeds but strew his 
path 
To build Oppression's funeral 
pyre 1" 

Sweet is the sound when pardon calls 
The prisoner from his dreary walls ; 
And sweet the succoring voice must be 
Which hails a sinking ship at sea ; 
And dear the water's li«iht when first 
It greets the desert-pilgrim's thirst, 
Or from the friendl}' helmet drips 
To cool a fainting patriot's lips : 
But not more sweet or dear than when 
A fond heart hears and meets again 
The voice and the responding eye 
Of one, the dearest 'neath the sky, 
Whom picturing fancy saw but now 
With drooping head and bleeding 

brow, 
Or heard the last-drawn sigh of pain 
Which laid him with his comrades 

slain : 
Her arm was round her hero prest, 
Her head was on his happy breast. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



271 



THE FIGHT AT THE FOKD. 

"When passed the first wild burst of 

j°y — 

That bliss which harbors no alloy, — 
The maiden brushed aside the tear, 
And sighed, " Oh, Edgar, is it 
true? 
And are you living, breathing here, 
Or is't a phantom cheats my view, 
And leads me up this happy brink 
To plunge me deeper when I sink? < 
Art sure that from the dreadful fray 
You brought no bleeding wound 

away ? 
Thank Heaven that fainting prayer 

can win 
Its way above the battle-din ! 
But tell me what great deeds were 
done, 
How the red waves were backward 
tossed 

Until the glorious field was won " 

" Alas !" he answered, " it was lost! 
And we retreat, — so deems the foe; 
But soon his bleeding ranks shall 
know 
7 Tis but the arrow drawing back 
Upon the stubborn-bending bow, 
To deal a fiercer, deadlier blow 

When vengeance speeds it on its 
track. 

" But how shall I describe the fray ? 
How word the horrors of the day 
To suit a timid maiden's ear? 
In sooth, the scenes are yet too 

near : 
The roaring cannon and the strife, 
With all those whirling ranks of life, 
Sweep through my brain, a puzzled 

maze, 
Confused within a cloudy haze: 
It seems a wild and broken dream, 
With transitory glimpse and gleam 
Of grappling groups, of bayonets' 

quiver, 
Of flashing guns and sabre-stroke, 
Caught through the openings of the 

smoke 
Upon some visionary river. 

" Wrapt in a friendly cloud of mist, 
At morn the wagoner led us out,. 



And, following our bold leader's 

shout, 
We put the pickets oft to rout, 
Oft trampling down a scouting list, 
And oft upon the foeman's flanks 
We dealt the blow their startled 
ranks 
Scarce knew where to resist. 

"For hours we sailed from rear to 
front, 
And down their side, from front to 
rear : 
Death and confusion paid the brunt 

Wherever we came near. 
Anon was heard the opening roar 
Which called us to the bristling shore ; 
And now the fearful scene was won 
Where deadly gun replied to gun, 
And pistol answered pistol flash, 
And then the fiery, sudden dash 
Of hand to hand, and sword to 
sword, 
While in the stream, with plunge 
and splash, 
Though thrice our number on us 
poured, 
We dealt the thick foe crash for crash, 
And strove to hold the ford. 

" Now was the time you should have 

seen 
Bold Kingbolt with his towering 

mien ; 
Have heard his voice, have seen his 
blow 
Which drove the heavy weapon 
home, 
Each stroke of which unhorsed a foe, 
And sent him reeling red below, 
'Mid trampled waters crushed to 
foam. 
But, oh, it would have touched your 

pride 
Could you have seen at Kingbolt's side 
Our standard-bearer, young and 

bold, 
Fighting and grasping in his hold 
The banner whose unsullied fold 
The foeman's rage defied ! 

" But, sad to see, and sad to tell, 
Brave Ugo's horse beneath him fell, 

The banner-boy went down. 
A moment, — shall the horses' tread 
Deal death upon his struggling head? 

A moment, — shall he drown ? 



272 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



No ! — Kingbolt from his saddle leaps, 
His mighty arm is round him cast, 

But still his lighting posture keeps, 
His blows fly strong and fast. 

" The rider who survives must grieve 
That ere his brave steed strove to 

cleave 
With rearing hoof that, skull apart, 
He fell an instant carcass slain, 
Hewed wellnigh through from throat 

to mane, 



"No arm with that great arm could 
cope, 
"Whether or foot or fiery horse ; 
But now, as with a tiger's force 
"When battling to protect its young, 
Upon his steed again he sprung, 
"While in his hold the boy still 

hung, 
And grasping, as with grip of 

death, 
The reins between his angry teeth, 

To give his right arm clearing scope, 
There still his blade of battle swung. 
And on the pressing foemen flung 
The blow that to the invaders rung 

The knell of many a hero's hope. 

" At last the overwhelming tide 
Of foemen pressed us slowly back ; 
"We did not turn, we did not slack 
Our heavy blows, or ever flinch, 
But, slowly backing, inch by inch, 

"We gained the other side. 

But now was heard the roaring din 

Of Wayne's artillery pouring in ; 

And while its iron torrent flowed, 
Leaving the foe enough to do, 
Along the highway we withdrew, 

To breathe a little, and reload. 

" When Ugo wakened from his swoon, 
Gathering his scattered senses soon, 

He sought the banner of his pride ; 
He looked through all the busy 

band, 
And stared upon his empty hand, 

Then cast his eagle glances wide. 
1 Oh, death ! oh, infamy !' he cried : 
He saw it on the other side, 
Beneath the invader's standard tied, 
Heavily hanging, wet and tame, 
Weeping as 'twere in grief and shame. 



" The hour was loud, but louder still 
Anon the rage of battle roared 

Its wild and murderous will ; 

From Jeft'erisdown to Wistar's ford, 
From Jones to Chads the cannon 
poured, 

While thundered Osborne Hill. 

Oh, ne'er before fled holy calm 

From out its sainted house of prayer 
So frighted through the trembling 
air 

As from that shrine of Birmingham ! 

"Oft through the opening cloud we 

scanned 
The shouting leaders, sword in hand, 

Directing the tumultuous scene ; 
There galloped Maxwell, gallant 
Bland 
The poet-warrior, while between,* 
Ringing o'er all his loud command, 
Dashed the intrepid Greene. 

" Here Sullivan in fury trooped, 
There Weedon like an eagle swooped, 
With Muhlenberg, — where they were 
grouped 
The invader dearly earned his 
gains, — 
And (where the mad should only be 
The fiercest champion of the free) 
The loudest trumpet-call was 
Wayne's ; 
While in a gale of battle-glee, 

With rapid sword and pistol dealing 
The blows which set the foemen 
reeling, 
Sped ' light-horse Harry Lee.' 
And once or twice our eye descried, 
'Mid clouds a moment blown aside, 
With lifted hand that well might 

wield 
The thunders of the storming field, 
The Jove of battle ride ! 
And every eye new courage won 
Which gazed that hour on Washing- 
ton. 

" 'Twas now that, marvelling, we be- 
held 
Upon the rising summit near, 
By every danger unrepelled, 

Confused by smoke and dust, — not 
fear, — 
A form with wild and floating dress, 
Which looked a battle-prophetess. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHAXIES. 



273 



But when the veiling cloud went 

by, 

We knew the face and flashing eve 
Of Nora, and we heard her cry 

Of warning in that hour of need : — 

11 ' Speed, Kingbolt, to your leader 

speed ! 
And bid him know the stealthy foe 
With double strength comes up be- 
hind : 
It was but now T saw him wind 
From out the valley road below.' 

"She ceased: a short and sudden 

scream 
Escaped her breast ; across the stream, 
Far piercing through the veil of 

haze, 
Her fierce eyes seat their staring 

gaze, 
And, following that stare, we saw, 
With soul of wonder and of awe, 
Where Porter and bold Portertield 

Renewed the struggle at the ford ; 

And at the moment when the sword 
Swayed in the balance where to yield, 

In middle of the mad melee 

Young Ugo snatch his flag away, 
Leap from the hot, opposing shore, 

The banner tied about his waist, 
And in the flood plunge fiercely o'er, 

By a hundred whistling bullets 
chased, 
And soon, with wild ecstatic hand, 
He waved it 'mid our shouting band. 

" Naught dearer fills a soldier's sight, 
Or swells his breast with more delight, 
Than when his flag, late scorned and 

shamed, 
Is by some comrade's hand reclaimed. 

11 Another look, the ford was clear, 
The foe was reeling to the rear ; 
And now the smoke came deeper on, 
And Nora from our sight was gone. 
But still her voice rang high and loud: 

The speaker hid, the sound so near, 
It seemed some spirit of the cloud 

Spake those prophetic words of 
fear : — 
'Too late! too late!' this was the 

cry: 
' Fly, Ringbolt, Ugo, comrades ! — fly ! 

The reinforcing foe is here !' 



"What followed then I scarcely 
know, 
Save that we dashed amid the 
smoke, 
And where we saw a red line glow, 
There fell our fiery battle-stroke : 
Like a mad billow of the main 

We broke upon those thundering 
banks, 
Then, drawing backward, formed 
again, 
To burst anew alonsr their ranks. 



For hours the scene was still the 
same, — 
A sleet of lead "mid sheets of flame ; 
j The hot hail round us hissed and 

roared, 
] Through clouds of seething sulphur 
poured, 
Until — we knew not how or why — 
The day was lost ! Our saddened 

view 
Between the smoke-wreaths' opening 

wrack 
Beheld the patriots falling back : 

The hour of victory had gone by ! 
Still fighting, we our line withdrew, 
Scorning to yield or fly. 

"And now we gained a sheltering 

wood, 

Where (oh, it was a sight to whet 

The sword of vengeance keener 

yet!), 

Pale with the streaming loss of blood, 

By hireling foemen still beset, 
Beside his foaming charger stood 
The wounded, gallant Lafayette. 

" We swept between, with scathing 
blow, 
Until his bleeding wound was 
bound : 
Each drop of his the cloven foe 

Paid double to the crimson ground, 
Until from off that field forlorn 
The noblest son of France was borne. 

"But, oh, the sight, the last and 

worst, 
That now upon my vision burst! — 
1 saw. beyond a thicket-screen, 
Pale Nora o'er a warrior lean : 



274 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



His head upon her knee she nursed, 
And held unto his fainting lip 
The can he scarce had strength to 
sip. 

A few swift leaps, we gained the place. 

Oh, he the hireling doubly cursed 
Who caused that noble breast to 
groan ! 

It was my father's upturned face 
"Which looked into my own. 

"'Nay, son,' he faintly sighed, the 

while 
His features wore a struggling smile, 
' Be not dismayed, 'twill pass anon : 

'Tis but a little loss of blood : 
I am content : my hand has done 

On many a foeman work as good ; 
And some, methinks, will never tell 
Beneath what old man's sword they 

fell. 
But bear me hence: this trifling 

wound ' 

Then in my circling arms he swooned. 
Nay, start not : still it was not 

death,— 
His breast anon recalled his breath. 

"We made a couch of fallen bough?, 
Which thickly strewed the wood- 
land path, 
Torn by the cannon's flying wrath, 
And, with such speed as pain allows, 
Conveyed him to the cavern, where 
He rests in Nora's watchful care ; 
Then, with the moon to light my way, 
I rode to tell how went the day." 



THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUD. 

The red October by his tent 

Sits painted in his warrior-hues ; 

Beside him lies, in peace unbent, 
The bow which he too soon will use. 

O'er all the hill- sides near and far 
He sees the wigwam-smoke dis- 
pread ; 
There all his waiting warriors are, 
Streaked with their many tints of 
red. 



Through all the realm of elm and oak 
The blue wreaths of their pipes 
increase : 

Alas ! the calumets they smoke 
Are not the sacred pipes of peace ! 

They plan around their council-fire 

The ambush on to-morrow's track ; 
They do but wait their warrior-sire 



The smile upon his lip to-day, 

The dream-light in his plotting eye, 

Are but prophetic signs to say 

How fierce the arrow-storm shall fly. 

Thus Esther mused, as from her tower 
She gazed o'er misty stream and 
land : 
She knew 'twas hut War's breathing- 
hour 
Ere he again, in all his power, 

Should wave his flashing battle- 
brand. 

Even there, beneath her very gaze, 

The invader's bristling lines were 
spread, 
Wrapt in the calm October haze, 

And, like the Indian autumn, red. 
From Delaware their scarlet ranks 
Reached even to the Schuylkill banks, 
So near the very mansion-wall 
Echoed the frequent bugle-call, — 
A sight to make a young heart sad, 

And all her patriot hopes destroj 7 , — 
While Berkley's loyal breast was mad 

With uncontrolled bursts of joy. 

He gave the invaders every proof 

How much his wishes with them 
lay : 
Their flag was waving on his roof, 

His halls received them night and 
day ; 
He even broached his buried store, 

And brought a dozen hampers out, 
Willing with generous hand to pour, 

Repaid by loyal song and shout. 

But one there was whose bowing 
plume 
Was chiefly welcome to Sir Hugh, 
And once before that banquet-room 
Had felt his presence through and 
through, — 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



275 



The same who on that long-gone 
night 
The maiden's swelling song had 
heard, 
Who deigned from his great warrior- 
height 
To stoop, and own his heart was 
stirred. 

Now oft in Berkley's ear apart 

He spoke about the maiden's hand : 
" The heiress of such noble land, ■ 
Sir Hugh, should have a noble heart." 
And once, with condescending lips, 
He bowed and kissed her finger-tips, — 
Sufficient such approving sign 
From colonel of the royal line. 

Thus passed a few calm days away ; 
And now the night was not yet gone, 
Its dreamy veil but half withdrawn, 
Fair Esther on her white couch lay, 
Her soft light melting through the 

shade ; 
Her cheek against her hand was laid, 
Round which the dainty flaxen curls 
"Were cast in little golden whirls, 
As Love's own toying fingers light 
Had twirled them o'er the pillow 
white. 

That rounded arm, that angel face, 
The breast that stirred the snowy 
frills, 
The whole light form of perfect grace, 
"Which the soft covering seemed to 

trace 
As loving it with warm embrace, — 

All this the conjuring fancy thrills ; 
Thrills with a sense of sweet restraint, 
As when before some sculptured saint, 
Or lovely vision poured in paint 
By some pure master, when his heart 
"Was molten with the fire of art. 

Across her face strange shadows 

played, 
As if by struggling pinions made ; 
For she was dreaming of the fray, 

"Watching, amid the smoke-wreaths 
dun, 

Her Edgar bravely battling on, 
The fiercest hero of the day. 
She saw him riding midst the din 
That raged around the Warren Inn, 



And on Paoli's fearful plain, 

When Massacre the sword had 

drawn. 
The trumpet's near and startling 

strain, 
That fiercely shook the cloudy 

dawn, 
The drums that rolled their loud 

alarms, 
And legions springing up to arms, 
Flashed through her dream, and, 

when she woke, 
Upon her ear the tumult broke ! 

Leaders were hurrying to and fro, 
Proclaiming far, " The foe ! the foe !" 
" The foe ! the foe !" rang over all, 
And woke the echoes of Berkley 
Hall. 

"When Esther looked from her case- 
ment high, 

Fear trembling in her large blue 
eye, 

She stared against the vapor dank 

Of morning hanging gray and blank. 16 

Great wrestling voices in the cloud, 
Made by the mist more clear and 

loud, 
Appalled her ear ; the sudden roar 
Of swift artillery shook the shore ; 
While here and there the half-blurred 

flash 
Burned, and every window-sash 
Answered to the thunder-crash. 

Anon she saw some warrior-form, 
Like the great genii of the storm, 
rtise into shadowy giant height, 
And then another of equal might, 
And now the followers swung in 

sight, 
Wielding great arms, — as oak with 

oak 
Were battling in the hill-side smoke ; 
Or armies of the infernal god, 
With lightning and with thunder 

shod, 
Were wielding their gigantic blades 
Against the crests of kindred shades ; 
Or, rather, as some pale, strange light 
Were shining on some unseen fight, 
And these the shadows fierce and tall 
It threw upon a cold gray wall, 
Struggling in many a rise and fall. 



276 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHAMES. 



A scene of horror clear descried 

Must make the stoutest spirit quail ; 
But horrors doubly magnified 
Behind a halt-concealing veil 
May well make maiden's cheek grow 
pale. 

She watched the sun rise o'er the field. 
A great disk like a bloody shield, 
And 'gainst it rosea vision dim, 
Made clearer by that burning rim, 
Two plunging riders huge and grim ; 
Their fiery chargers seemed to swim 
Together in the wild commotion, 
Like war-barques in a roaring 

ocean. 
But who is he, that warrior slim, 
Now lost to sight, and now more 

plain? 
The agile form proclaims it him 

The object of her heart's devotion. 
But, see !— oh, monstrous ! — even the 

sun 
Burns redder, beholding three to 

one, — 
Three striking and one parrying! 

Now, 
Doubling the tumult of the scene, 
Another giant swings between ! 
Swift flash the blades around his 

brow, 
Like lightning o'er some rocky crest, 
Drawn by the metal in its breast: 
But, like the storm-defying rock, 
Harmless about him breaks the shock ; 
The battle-clouds, confused and rent, 
Are backward hurled, their thunders 

'spent. 

Still side by side the heroes fight, 
Following the foe from left to right; 
Swift flies the "Wagoner's whirling 

blade, 
And Edgar's is its very shade. 

See how they rear, and plunge, and 

smite, 
And, fighting still, wheel out of 

sight. 
Her throbbing eyes can bear no more : 
She sinks, half fainting, to the floor. 

But no ! her heart is with the cause : 
Shall she thus sink away dismayed 
The while her Edgar's flaming blade 
Is flashing even as she bade? 



One deep, renewing breath she draws : 
She scorns the weakness thus dis- 
played, 
Contemns the soul that now would 
pause, 
And gains her feet, no more afraid. 

Before his door, with sword in hand, 
Sir Hugh was making warlike stand, 
When a troop of loyalists came by, 
Uncertain if to tight or fly: 
Such contradictory news was tossed 

Through fogs that veiled the battle- 
din, 

They dared not say which side 
would win, 

But to their secret hearts within 
They owned the dreadful day was lost. 

One glance at Berkley Hall they threw, 
And saw the flag which o'er it flew : 
l> Ho, sirrah rebel ! who are you ?" 
They cried, and trooped around Sir 

Hugh. 
" Rebel !" he echoed, in disdain : 
" Who dares such words apply again, 
This hand shall drive the lying breath 
Back to his throat through bleeding 

teeth ; 
This sword shall cleave the caitiff 

through 
Who dares that insult to renew." 

"Ho! ho !" they cried, — "a prize! a 
prize ! 
The rebel dog, through fear and 

shame, 
Would skulk beneath a loyal name ; 
But where yon rag insults the skies 
We know full well our right to 
claim." 

"That rag? Insult?"— He choked 

with ire; 
He said no more ; his eye of fire 
Flashed confidently o'er the roof, 
When — oh, the staggering, deadly 
proof ! 
His heart, as from a towering crag, 
Fell back, as stunned in dismal 

plight. 
Where now his valiant soul of 
might, 
The spirit never known to lag ? . 
There, sailing on the winds aloof, 
He saw the hated patriot flag, 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHAXIES. 



97" 



"While Ugo's clear and ringing voice 
Flung from the watch-tower far 
and free — 

Making the misty air rejoice — 
The fiery shout of Victory. 

Bold Berkley stood with wonder 

dumb, 
Confused, as dead to sight and 

sound ; 
But, when he felt his senses come, 
He chafed to find his arms were 

bound ; 
And then, with high, indignant 

mien, 
Mounted two surly guards between, 
He left with threatening brow the 

scene. 

Sir Hugh long cursed the fatal hour 
Which saw that flag upon his tower : 
Oh, sad mischance that placed it 

there 
In that wild moment when despair 
Was trembling down the royal line, — 
When Victory, with her thrusting 
hand. 
Through blinding fogs, strove to con- 
sign 
Her laurel to the patriot band ! 17 
And Berkley, ready for the field, 
At his own door, with waving 

sword, 
Stood threatening with defiant word 
The loyal troop which Dade him yield. 
And, further, his accusers knew 
That members of the obnoxious crew 
At all hours, day and night, had been 
Prowling round Berkley Manor seen. 

All these were ominous proofs and 

black 
Which gathered on his troubled track : 
No word of his could move the shade 
Upon his loyal honor laid. 

Some favor still the doubt received : 
Thev would not touch his land or 

hall; 
His daughter might retain them 
all. 
This but in part bis pain relieved : 
His fancy saw marauding band- 
Insult his house, o'errun his lands : 
His daughter, too, — might she not be 
Subject to rough brutality ? 



His fears were vain : his mansion 
through, 
When the withdrawing troop went 

down 
To hold their quarter in the town, 
Was guarded better than he knew. 



HEADQUARTERS. 

O'er town and cottage, vale and 

height, 
Down came the Winter, fierce and 

white, 
And shuddering wildly, as distraught 
At horrors his own hand had wrought. 

His child, the young Year, newly 
born, 
Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted, 
Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn, 

As on a frozen heath benighted. 
In vain the hearths were set aglow, 
In vain the evening lamps were 
lighted, 
To cheer the dreary realm of snow : 
Old Winter's brow would not be 

smoothed, 
Xor the young Year's wailing 
soothed. 

How sad the wretch at morn or eve 
Compelled his starving home to leave, 
Who, plunged breast-deep from drift 

to drift, 
Toils slowly on from rift to rift, 
Still hearing in his aching ear 
The cry his fancy whispers near, 
Of little ones who weep for bread 
Within an ill-provided shed ! 

But wilder, fiercer, sadder still, 

Freezing: the tear it caused to start, 
Was the inevitable chill 

Which pierced a nation's agued 
heart, — 
A nation with its naked breast 
Against the frozen barrier- prest, 
Heaving its tedious way and slow 
Through shifting gulfs and drifts of 

woe, 
Where every blast that whistled by 
Was bitter with its children's cry. 



24 



278 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



Such was the winter's awful sight 
For many a dreary day and night, 
"What time our country's hope forlorn, 
Of every needed comfort shorn, 
Lay housed within a hurried tent, 
Where every keen hlast found a rent, 
And oft the snow was seen to sift 
Along the floor its piling drift, 
Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold, 
Across the night-couch frequent 

rolled ; 
"Where every path by a soldier beat, 

Or every track where a sentinel 
stood, 
Still held the print of naked feet, 

And oft the crimson stains of blood ; 
Where Pa mine held her spectral 
court, 

And joined by all her fierce allies : 
She ever loved a cam}) or fort 

Beleaguered by the wintry skies, — 
But chiefly when Disease is by, 
To sink the frame and dim the eye, 
Until, with seeking forehead bent, 

In martial garments cold and damp. 
Pale Death patrols from tent to tent, 

To count the charnels of the cam}). 

Such was the winter that prevailed 
Within the crowded, frozen gorge ; 

Such were the horrors that assailed 
The patriot hand at Valley Forge. 

It was a midnight storm of woes 
To clear the sky for Freedom's 
morn ; 

And such must ever be the throes 
The hour when Liberty is born. 

The chieftain, by his evening lamp, 
Whose flame scarce cheered the hazy 

damp, 
Sat toiling o'er some giant plan, 
With maps and charts before him 
spread, 
Beholding in his warrior-scan 

The paths which through the future 
led. 

But oft his eye was filmed and dim, 
And oft his aching bosom yearned, 
As through the camp his fancy 
turned 
And saw sad eyes which bent on him 
The look which they in pain had 
learned. 



The sunken orbs of hunger there, 
With those that throbbed in fever- 
rage, 
As he their suffering might assuage, 
Turned on him their imploring stare. 
And when he spoke the kindly word 
Oft from his lips of pity heard, 

And saw those eye? grow bright the 

while 
They caught the courage of his 
smile, 
His sorrowing heart was doubly 

stirred. 
And, to relieve his burdened breast, 
His face into his hands he prest, 
And poured his secret soul in prayer, 
Where hope still rose above despair. 

And there was seated by his side 
The noblest of a noble line : 
Her whole soul in her face benign, 
Through love and suffering purified, 
Shone worthy such a chieftain's bride. 

And not alone his prayer was given, — 
She joined him in imploring Heaven : 
Those prayers fell not in barren sands 

Beside Oblivion's fruitless sea, 
But, borne aloft by angel hands, 

They bloomed to flowers of victor}-. 

The eve was late : naught met the ear, 
But tramp of sentinel marching near, 
Or soft and feathery beat of snow 
Blown light against the window- 
pane, 
To melt thereon, and tearlike flow, 
As if the sympathetic glow 

Within had turned each flake to 
rain. 
At times there came the slumbrous 
sound 
Of waters toiling at the mill, 
Still singing, though in fetters bound, 
The song learned on their natal 

hill. 
Let Winter, with oppressive will, 
Bind down the stream with chains 

of ice, 
His utmost power shall not suffice 
To keep that heart of Freedom 
still: 
Though prisoned in the frozen pond, 
It only reinforcement waits 
To burst the tyrant's heavy gates 
And leap to liberty beyond. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



279 



Thus with the tranquil flood of power 
Within that camp of ice and snow : 
Though all was silent outward 
show, 

They did but wait the opening hour. 

The night was late : the chieftain 
heard 
Approaching footsteps up the yard: 

A knock : he rose, and gave the word : 
The door swung wide ; the snowy 
guard 

Announced, with some unwonted stir, 

An unexpected visitor, 

"With two attendants there beside. 

It was a maid with cloak of fur, 
And hood, so closely round her tied 
That well the storm had been defied. 

So thick the snow was o'er her blown, 
So flaxen was the falling braid 
Beside the rosy cheek displayed, 
She looked like some fair ^Norland 
maid 

Wrapped in a robe of eider-down. 

Beside her stood a youth whose mien 

Brought to the chief's remember- 
ing eye 
The stripling hero he had seen 

Bearing a banner proudly high, 
Within a light-horse flying line, 
That fearful day at Brandywine. 
The other was that sturdy dame 

The housekeeper : you saw it all 
In one glance at that stately frame, 

Queen of the keys of Berkley Hall. 

The maid a moment seemed to stand 
Abashed before that presence high : 
He read it in her timid eye, 

And took in his her trembling hand. 

She felt her young blood swifter run ; 
Her heart could not regain its calm ; 
Her little hand lay in his palm, — 

The noble palm of Washington ! 

Then rose the lady, with serene, 
Sweet looks o'er all her stately mien ; 
And she too took her hand, and 

spoke 
In winning accents low and mild : — 
" It is a stormy night, my child, 
For one so young to be abroad ; — 
Or have you wandered from your 

road ? 
Pray, loose your snowy hood and 

cloak, 



And warm you well beside the fire, 
And take the rest which you require. 
Shrink not because the place is small : 
Our hearts, we trust, have room for 
all." 

When Esther answered, "Noble 

friends, 
We have not wandered from our 

way, 
Nor need we now for warmth 

delay ; 
Our glowing purpose freely sends 
Its heat, and we would straigntway 

do 
The duty Heaven directs us to. 

" Much have we heard of all the ills 
Suffered along these winter hills, — 
Of famine in the frozen camp, 
Of cheerless couches, cold and damp, 
W'here sickness breathes its painful 

breath 
'Mid bitter wants that usher Death. 

" Hence have we come, with courage 

armed, 
With every deep compassion warmed, 
To do the little in our power 
To soothe the suffering of the hour. 
Our sleigh is standing at the door, 
Laden with such poor, hasty store 
As one home from its winter hoard 
Can to a bleeding cause afford : 
And now it but remains to ask 
Permission to assume our task." 

She ceased, and stood with glowing 

cheek, — 
So beautiful, so young and meek, 
She seemed an answer to their 

prayer, — 
A very pitying angel there. 

The chieftain's e} r e grew dim with 

mist, 
His heart was all too full to speak ; 
The lady's arm the maiden prest, 
She drew her to her matron breast 
And tenderly her forehead kissed. 

The chief put out his hands, and 
smiled, — 
He laid them on her golden hair, 
And said, in feeling words of 
prayer, 
" God bless you, noble child !" 



280 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



VII. 

THE WINTEK CAMP. 

'Twas midnight in the soldier's shed, 
"Where lay upon his burning bed 
The sufferer, to wnose fever-glow 
Most welcome came the gusts of 

snow, 
On searching night-winds, icy thin, 
Through every cranny blowing in, 
Filling the place with frequent mist, 
That round the one poor taper hissed. 

Close at his sicle an aged man 
Sat, like a good Samaritan, 
Pouring the sacred oil and balm, 
His pains and spirit-wounds to calm. 
A cloth about his brow was bound, 
To shield a deep and stubborn wound ; 
"While round his neck the intruding 

air 
Lifted and fanned his thin gray hair. 
Across his knees his warrior sword 
Sustained the book o'er which he 

pored ; 
The leaves were yellow, old, and 

stained, 
And oft by fluttering, rude winds 

stirred, 
But still his aged eyesight strained 
To read the sacred, unstained "Word. 

But who was she who knelt beside, 
And held the sick man's hand in 

hers, 
Feeling such pain as only stirs 
The breast where love and truth 

abide ? 
It needs but one glance to suffice 
To know those large and dewy eyes ; 
But keener sight 'twould take, I 

ween, 
To recognize that altered mien 
Of him whose features scarcely prove 
The Edgar of her hope and love. 

But saddest of her painful lot 
To look into those eyes which burned, 
To find no answering look returned, — 
Those eyes whose gladness ever flew 
In love to hers, with pleasure new : — 

Alas ! alas ! he knew her not ! 

A moment thus in prayers and tears 
Her bosom poured its flood of fears ; 



But, conscious that, though blind 
with pain, 
His heart was hers, and hers lone, 
She summoned strength, and stood 
again 
Strong in his love and in her own. 
As one who on a battle-plain, 
Peeling his life-blood dew the ground, 
Seizes the scarf which love had bound 
With trembling hands his breast 

around, 
And thrust it in the bleeding wound 
To stanch the crimson tide of life, 
Then springs anew to join the strife, 
To give, perchance, the fatal blow 
Which lays the invading foeman 

low, — 
So rose the maid, and firmly prest 
His love into her bleeding breast, 
And strove, with all such hands can 

do, 
To win him back to health anew. 

It was a charmed sight to see 

How lovingly she came and went, — 
How like a sunbeam, silently, 

She cheered and warmed that winter 
tent. 
Her cloak of fur around the wall 

She hung, to intercept the blast ; 
Across the door was spread her shawl, 

And every cranny was made fast. 

Nor here alone her care was given : 

She daily passed from shed to shed ; 
The early morn, the noon, the even, 
Still found her near some sufferer's 
bed. 
And striving oft, as she had striven, 
There praying 'mid the sick and 

dead, 
She saw the chieftain's bowing 

head, 
And heard his word of courage 

said : 
Where'er they smiled there seemed 
to spread 
The soft and healing breath of Heaven. 

Not fruitless was her constant care, 
And not unheard her daily prayer : 
The blackest cloud of all was past ; 

New sunshine filled the winter 
skies ; 
Hope came to Edgar's couch at last : 

No more her face his glance denies ; 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



281 



His soul responded through his 

eyes 
"With all the warmth which love 

supplies. 

And with the first returning hreath — 
A breath as sweet as that which 
stirs 
Through April boughs, when all 

the woods 
Feel the first thrill of promised 
buds- 
He owned his soul was doubly hers, 
Since she had called it back from 
death. 

One day, as by the scanty fire 

She strove to make it sparkle higher, 

The while her patient's slender 
form 

Was propt beside, and mantled 
warm, 
The old man, Edgar's patriot sire, 
Entered with overshadowed brow, 

And said, " Sweet daughter, come 
with me : 
I fear another couch may now 

Lay claim to your fidelity. 
The strange wild woman you so oft 

Encountered in your winter round, 

And who so frequently you found 
Soothing the sick with accents soft, — 
Accents which suited not the dress, 
So fitted for the wilderness, — 
Now lies a victim to the spell 
Which she in others strove to quell, 
With fever sorely racked and thrilled, 
'Mid kindly hands, but all unskilled. 

" I have not yet forgot the day 
When- on the battle-field I lay 
Almost in death, she was the first 
To slake my fever-flame of thirst, 
Or how within the secret cave 

She tended me so well and long, 
Cheering me oft with some wild 
stave 

Of ballad or of mountain-song, 
And oft, as though I were a child 

(There's something in her brain 
amiss), 
Telling some legend strange and wild. 

For this But nay, — it needs 

not this 
To wake compassion in your eyes: — 
A human creature suffering lies." 



Then Esther rose, and joined her 
guide, 

And reached the shed where Nora 
lay ; 
But, when she stood by Nora's side, 

Her heart of courage sank away. 
For, oh, it was a piteous sight 
To see those eyes so- strangely bright, 
And all that flood of scattered hair 
As blown by winds of wild despair, 
And all the trappings of her dress 
Flung wide by hands of hot distress ! 

There Ugo by the wagoner stood, 
And both in anxious, gloomy mood ; 
She stared upon the wondering child, 
Then wept as o'er some burning 

thought, 
Then gazed at Kingbolt strangely 

wild, 
And laughed, as though her pain 

w r ere naught. 
The saddest of ail sounds that flow 
Is laughter forced from deeps of woe. 

A moment on the maid she glanced, 
As if her spirit hung entranced, 
And now, with curious, searching 

scan, 
Surveyed the pitying, gray-haired 

man, 
And spoke with low, mysterious 

air : — 
" Thou poor young bride, bew r are ! 

beware ! 
Oh, wed not with that cold white 

hair! 
That summer smile is but device : — 
His breast is snow, his heart is ice. 
Oh, cold was the bridegroom, 

All frozen with pride ! — 
He first slew her lover, 

Then made her his bride. 
Ringbolt, how goes the battle? Ho! 
Fly^ Ugo !— fly '—the foe !— the foe ! 
A stealthy trick ! — but they shall 

know 
The stricken can return the blow ! 
The tyrant and his host shall flee, — 
When patriots strike, they shall be 

free ! 

" Our flag like a meteor 

Sweeps down through the fight : 
It brightens the valley 

And burns on the height. 



24* 



282 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



" Oh, did you not see 

How it sprung like a flame 

"When the voice of the nation 
Called Freedom by name ? 

11 On the soul of the tyrant 

That mighty name fell, 
As in Gessler's heart quivered 

The arrow of Tell!" 

Thus sang she, and fell back with 

breath 
Drawn faint as through the lips of 

death ; 
The life within the frame consumed 
Seemed scarce again to be illumed. 
Then Kingbolt gazed on her with 

eye 
Of pain, — almost of agony, — 
And said, with heavy, solemn tongue, 
" 'Tis hard for one so good and young 
To suffer thus ! The poor white 

dove 
Was murdered by a falcon's love !" 

Then Esther said, " Indeed, my 

friends, 
It is a sight which sadly sends 
The blood back on the heart, to see 
Such depths of human misery. 
Oh, surely this wild, dismal camp 
Is all too rough and cold and damp : 
'Twere better if she were convoyed 
And in some quiet chamber laid, 
'Mid hands that know to tend and 

spread 
The comforts of a sufferer's bed, 
"Where pity only holds control, 
"With not a sound to vex the soul. 
And such a room my heart allows, 
"Within a well-provided house, 
And well I know her couch will 

find 
The hands attendant, gentle, kind ; 
For Hulda, ever good and mild, 
Will guard her as she were her child. 
Haste, Ugo, haste, and bring the 

sleigh, 
And let her be enwrapt straight- 
way : 
'Tis but a short two hours' ride ; 
So easily her course shall glide, 
So deep shall be her bed of fur, 
So soft and noiseless be the stir, 
That she may sleep and never know 
How swiftly fly the miles below." 



A moment there was seen to go 
O'er Kingbolt's face a blackening 

cloud : 
At length his nodding forehead 
bowed : 
" Perchance," he said, " 'twere better 
so." 

The sleigh was brought, and many 
a fold 

Of fur and blanket wrapt her form : 
And now within the wagoner's hold, 

Like a light infant, close and warm, 
She lay, — and thus, beside the maid, 
To Berkley Mansion was conveyed. 

He bore her up the shadowy stair, 
The'wildered sufferer knew not where, 
And in a chamber warm and large 
He left her in kind Hulda's charge. 

A cup of wine, — bluff words of 
thanks, — 
If Esther would regain the camp, 
Ugo must be her guard and 
guide,— 
The great hall heard his heavy 
tramp, 
The deep snow marked his giant 
stride, 
Which led him up the Schuylkill 

banks 
To join again his waiting ranks. 



Vin. 

THE HEKALDS. 

Days came and went round Nora's 

couch : 

If there was need of aught to tell 

That gentle hands attended well, 

Her mild and altered mien could 

vouch. 

Weeks came and went, and every day 
Brought better news from out the 
valley : 
Each tiding-tongue was glad to say 
The troops, the cause, all seemed to 
rally. 
And Esther's heart, though still her 
sire 
Was captive in the royal camp, 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



283 



Saw Hope re-fan her smouldering fire 
Within the cloud's desponding 
damp. 

'Twas evening, and she watched the 

gleam 
Of moonlight over hill and stream ; 
Though winter now was wellnigh 
through, 
And spring-time promised soon to 
blow, 
Still, all the scene which met her 
view 
Lay in a gleaming robe of snow. 
She sat and gazed upon the stars, 
As on a banner there unfurled, 
And wondered if each sparkling 
world 
Was shocked like this with martial 
jars,— 
If through those tranquil, silver 

skies 
Stern warriors bent devoted eyes 
In worship on the planet Mars. 

She mused, — when Hulda's waking 
hand 
Was laid upon her resting arm, 
And, looking up with mild alarm, 
She saw within the moonlight stand 
Another, whose brave feet had paced 
Through paths of snow in breathless 
haste. 

" I come" — this was her hurried word, 
She scarcely seemed for breath to 
pause — 
" To you, for I have often heard 
Your heart is with our patriot 
cause : 
You have swift horses at command, 
And have, perchance, some trusty 
hand 
By whom a message may be borne : 
The word L bear must roach our band 
Before to-morrow morn." 

"Speak on!" the startled hearer 

cried : 
" It shall, no matter what betide !" 

" Our enemy a plan has laid — 

I got the news, it boots not bow — 
By which our camp shall be betrayed, 
And all our noble army made 
To bite the dust, or basely bow. 



This was their threat ; and even now 
Their rapid horsemen form in line, 
And ere the dawn 'tis their design 

To strike the fatal blow. 

" This is the news : I pray you speed ; 
The hour is short, and dire the 

need : 
I have no time to answer more ; 
But if our noble chief would know 
The source from which these tidings 

flow, 
Then tell him boldly, undeterred, 
'Tis Lydia Darrach's faithful word, 18 
Which served him once before." 

"Thanks, noble heart!" young Es- 
ther cried, 
And flung her daring tresses wide: 

" Spite every danger or mishap, 
Ere yon low moon shall disappear, 
The news shall reach our General's 
ear 
Though Death stood in the gap!" 

Waiting no more to hear or say, 
The herald took her homeward way. 

"Now, Ugo!" — this was Esther's 

call,— 
" Bridle the swiftest steed in stall, 
Fly with the news you just have 

heard, 
And let our chieftain know the word." 

" A steed !" he answered ; " but sup- 
pose 
The road should be beset with foes, 
The boldest rider scarce would do 
To bear such needful tidings through. 
No, no : I have a better way, — 
One quite as swift, and far more 
sure ; 
Nor horse nor man my course shall 
stay, 
I shall be mounted so secure." 

She stared at him with puzzled 
brow, 
But he nor look nor answer stayed ; 
She heard the rattling which he 
made 
W T ithin the dusky hall below; 
She saw him dash across tin; snow, 
Until he gained the frozen river, 



284 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



Watched him a moment bending- low, 
Then, like an arrow from the bow, 
Beheld his flying figure go 

On skates, with many a flash and 
quiver, 
As if the glistening ice and steel, 
In lightning, would his speed reveal. 

The smile applauded the device : 
She watched him, with a glad sur- 
prise, 
Until he vanished from her eyes. 
But suddenly, with fear renewed, 
She stood in anxious attitude: — 
That messenger upon the ice, 
It might, and yet might not, suffice. 
If highways held the foeinan wolf, 
The river also had its gulf, 
And 'twas the season when the sun 
Old Winter's work had half undone; 
The snowy eaves were thawed at 

noon, 
The thinning ice must vanish soon ; 
The moon, too, hung with sinking 
disk; 
Her light would shortly be at end. 
No, no: it would not do to send 
One messenger on such a risk : 
All must be staked to win or lose; * 
In such a cause, who stayed to choose? 

In haste she ordered out the sleigh ; 
None heard the maid her purpose say ; 
'Twas not for others' ears discussed, 
For there was none whom she would 

trust, 
Save Hulda, and her duty lay 
Bound suffering Nora night and 

day. 
Alone she mounted, without pause, 
To save, perchance, her country's 

cause : 
Away, away, the light car flew ; 
The hoofs flung up the powdery 

snow ; 
Swift as a river seemed to flow 
The road beneath, where, slipping 

through 
The crispy foam with whistling 

shrieks, 
The runners left their glistening 

streaks.. 

Oh, enviable star in heaven 

That looked through that still crystal 



And saw how those two heralds went, 
Each on the same high mission bent, — 
One on a road of ice below, 
One on a stream-like road of snow, 
The locks of each flung backward far, 
And trailing like a meteor star: 
Oh, ne'er before sped soul with soul 
In holier race for earthly goal 1 

Just as the last hill-top was neared, 
And the swift horses slackened pace, 
A voice, as if it broke through space, 
Pealed to the welkin as it cheered, 
Announcingthe last danger cleared : — 
'Twas Ugo's wild, triumphant mirth, 
Ringing as it would circle earth. 

And thus the two young heralds met, 
In spite of foes about them set, 

In spite of dark and wintry 

weather, 
And to the grateful patriot chief, 
In burning language plain and brief, 
• Delivered theirgreat news together; 
And soon the horses, flecked with 

foam, 
Well pleased, were turned again for 

home. 
"While II go took the guiding rein, 
Thus held the maid her musing 

vein : — 

" Now the moon has left her track, 

Dropt behind the mountain-bars ; 

Paly shine the cold white stars, 
And the pale earth answers back; 
All the world a f-hadow lies, 

Darkly, breathless, deathly still, 
While above us hang the skies, 
Throbbing to our th lobbing eyes, 
Till the fancy almost hears 

Something of the strains that thrill, 
Passing through the happy spheres. 

" Yonder the great Northern Wain 
Rings across the azure plain, 
Nightly rolling toward the goal 
Of the ever-steadfast Pole : 
Every steed in that great car 
On his forehead wears a star, 
Proud with bells upon his mane. 

" Sweetest of the chimes of heaven, 
Is yon clustered sister-seven, 
In their turret's misty height, 
Like a stem of lilies white, — 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



285 



Our sweet valley Pleiades, 
Kinging perfume on the breeze. 
King, sweet sisters, clearer still : 
]VJy heart listens for the thrill 
From your sacred belfry-cell : 
Pour your chime; but, ah, the knell 
Floats from off your silver lips 
For that lost one in eclipse ! 

" Lost ! — ah, no : she is not lost ; 
Her song was too fine and sweet 
"With your sinking to compete ; 

On some more celestial coast 

She is now the angels' boast, 

With her joy forever told, 

In a tower of shining gold. 

" Ring, sweet stars of heaven, anew, 
And my heart will sing with you ; 
Ring ! — oh, ring ! — that I may hear 
And feel that heaven is sometimes 
near." 

Thus Esther in her happy breast 
The pleasure of her soul confest; 
For she was glowing with a sense 

(Although the thought had scarcely 
heed) 

That she had done a sacred deed 
"Which was its own sweet recompense. 
The singing sleigh, the horses' tread, 

Slow pacing homeward at their will, 
The flowing road that backward sped, 
The stars that chased her overhead, 

Like heavenly guardians with her 
still, 

The crystal air, but not too chill, 
All soothed her with a gentle calm, 
As if a cool and tender palm 
Were on her tranquil forehead prest 
To woo her into peaceful rest. 

And Ugo held in dreamy spell 

The reins which seemed about to 
fall; 
But homeward steeds remember well 
The road which leads them to their 
stall. 

All nature seemed as it were fanned 
With Slumber's cool and downy 
pinions ; 
But, hold ! — the steeds are at full 
stand ! 
Around them close the foeman's 
minions ! 



Is she awake, or does she dream ? 

The sword-flash that before her stirs, 
The scarlet coat, the helmet's gleam, 

The bursting laugh of rude de- 
rision, 

A rough voice shouting, "Pris- 
oners !" 
A soldier at each horse's rein, 
And Ugo dragged among the train, — 

All this proclaims it is no vision. 
The boy is loud, — he will not stay : 
A boy is he, armed soldiers they. 
" What men are ye," she strove to 

say, 
" Who dare to stop a lady's way ? 

I charge ye, off! Unbind the boy !" 
Whereat the captain's voice replied, 
Close at the startled maiden's side, 

" Lady, we wish not to annoy 
Furtherthan strictest duty calls: 
Be not alarmed : if aught befalls 
Amiss, the fault shall not be ours, — 
We serve the cause of higher powers: 
Though it seem hard, and you con- 
demn, 
Our prisoner, you must go to them." 

He took the reins, and said no more : 
With mounted men to guard" them 
down, 

Even past her own unhappy door 
She went a captive to the town. 



PART III. 



THE TANKARD OF WINE. 

Oh, what delight is in the air 

What time the new-born spring is 

there ! 
How sweet it is on the breezy slope, 
'Mid flowers in bloom or about to ope, 
When the dog-wood, like a maiden 

dight 
In bridal robes of snowy white. 
Beside the flaming maple stands, 
While the oak, with priestly hands 
Spread above their bowing heads, 
His whispering benediction sheds; 
"Where never a careless wind forgets 
To tell of the woodland violets, 



286 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



From spice-wood boughs and sassa- 
fras ; 
And, like the soul of a mocking- 
bird, 
Eepeating every song it heard, 
Each sweeter for being brought afar, 
As all the joys of memory are. 

Such Esther knew were the delights 
Clothing the valley and the heights ; 
And every perfumed air she met, 

Fresh breathing of the wood and 
field, 
Filled her with longings and regret 

For joys the city could not yield. 

Had she a pleasure in her breast, 
In secret it was all suppressed ; 
For every look and every tone 
Proclaimed her Melancholy's own. 

'Twas true, her captive chains were 

light,- 
Another might have deemed them 

bright ; 
But, light or bright, she felt the 

pain 
Of knowing that there was a chain 
"Which flowers, though twined with 

subtlest art, 
Could not make welcome to her heart : 
They could but hide from others' 

stare 
The galling weight she knew was 

there. 
The city and its farthest street 
"Were free to her unfettered feet ; 
But there was still that line beyond, 
O'er which her feelings, wildly fond, 
Took yearning wing, and well she 

knew 
She could not follow where they flew. 

Sir Hugh grew daily more appeased : 
He mingled with the martial court, 
His fetters seemed but things of 
sport, 
And even now might be released 
If he in any slight degree 
"Would bow and sue for liberty. 
But no ! they had assailed his pride : 
His loyalty had been denied : 
He would not bow the suppliant 

limb, — 
Nay, rather they must bow to him. 



And now, too, all he held most dear 
Next to his pride, his child, was here, 
And many a noble officer 
Bowed supplely low to him and her; 
And even those with hearts allied 
In secret to the patriot side 
Made him obeisance ; for they deemed 
He might be other than he seemed. 
These flattering tributes to him paid 
Gave sweet contentment, and he 
stayed. 



'Twas twilight, and the evening air 
Came dancing over Delaware, 
Fanning the easy sailor's hair, 
Who laughed and quaffed away his 

care, 
With merry song and gusty din, 
Under the stoop before the inn, 
Where soon, arrayed in colors fine, 
Two officers of the royal line 
Keeled singing in at the (men door, 

A flush with pleasure and with wine: 
'Twas noble, they said, — or rather 

swore, — 
With such a general to dine. 

Each face was scarlet as their dress : 
The whole man seemed to loom and 

shine, 
As if the red blood of the vine 

Its glowing presence would express 
By every visible outward sign. 

" Ho, landlord of the < Ship and Sheaf,' 
Bring us a flagon, and be brief! 
We must not let the tide go b}^, 
To leave us stranded high and dry, 
Or wait to-morrow's evening flood 
To lift us o'er the sand and mud ; 
'Twill never do to stick aground 
While other barques are sailing 

round : 
Let loose the wine, and, should that 

fail, 
Then swim us off with good brown 

ale!" 

Thus shouted they, then searched the 

gloom, 
To note what guests were in the room : 
Their glance found only two beside. 
" Two fellows there I think I spied," 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



28: 



"I 



Thus whispered one. 

are more," 
The other answered, — " surely four : 
But two, perchance, are made of 
wine I" 
"Whereat they laughed ; and still they 
swore 
'Twas noble, glorious, and divine 
"With such a general to dine. 

" Ho, landlord, bring another flask, 
To nerve us for to-morrow's task ! 
To-morrow's task ! Ah, that will be 
A scene of such rare chivalry 
That all shall go joy-mad to see ! 
A thousand times more bright and 

fine 
Than Germantown or Brandywine ! 
How those poor devils in the gorge, 
Hidden away at Valley Forge, 
In their tatterdemalion rags, 
Making their empty rebel brags, 
Would ope their boorish eyes to gaze 
Upon the splendors which shall blaze 
And burn, until the night is spent, 
Around our glorious tournament ! 
Come, landlord, drink, before we go, 
A bumper to the royal show ! 

" That fellow there, who seems to sulk 
And in the shadowy corner skulk, 
Go bring him out, and let him clear 
His throat, that he may loudly cheer 
The golden glories he shall see 
Around to-morrow's pageantry ! 
Come, sirrah, when a colonel bids, 
Nor sit with scowl like pirate Kidd's : 
This smile will smooth your hostler 

frown 
When it washes the hay-dust down I" 

The stranger rose : through a sideway 

door 
He pushed a young companion out, 
Then stood a moment as in doubt, 
The while he scanned the revellers 

o'er, 
Then strode to the table with visage 

grim, 
Demanding what they would with 

him. 

"To drink our general's health!" they 

cried. 
11 Our general !" boldly he replied, 
And drained the goblet willingly. 



" And to our tournament beside !" 
" And to the tournament !" echoed 

he ; 
" And may I be on hand to see !" 

" Again !" the other cried, with zest ; 
"Till high !— methinks that were a 

breast 
To hold a gallon in its chest, — 
And let the toast be to the fair, — 
To her whose colors I shall wear, — 
The badge of the ' Burning Mountain' 

mine, 
' The maid I love' my motto sign. 
Then pledge for whom I set the lance, 
With whom in banquet I shall 

dance, — 

tnce" — he 

waved his wine — 

" To her who may be bride of mine, — 

I have the father's word for all : 

Or, if not that" — with drunken leer 

He whispered in his comrade's ear, 

Then laughed till the cup was nigh 

to fall, 
And shouted, " The heiress of Berkley 

Hall!" 

The stranger's tankard was ready up ; 
Each his lip was about to dash, 
When, with an oath like a thunder- 
crash, 
He flashed the wine in the speaker's 
face 
And into the other's the empty cup, 
And then, with heavy, giant pace, 
Strode leisurely beyond the place ; 
And, ere they woke from their dis- 
grace, 
A light boat and a springing oar 
Had borne the wagoner far from shore. 



ii. 



THE MESCHIANZA.w 

city the beloved of Penn, 
How was your quiet startled when 
Ked Mars made your calm harbor 

glow 
With all the splendors he can show ! 

How looked your tranquil founder 

down 
That day upon his cherished town, — 



288 



THE- WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



That town which in the sylvan wild 
He reared and tended like a child ? 

Methinks that patriarch and his peers, 
Who fashioned all your staid re- 
treats, 
Groaned then in their celestial seats 
"With sad offended eyes and ears ; 
And, had their loving faith allowed, 
That day, in mournful spirit howed, 
Each had turned his olive- wand 
Into a rod of reprimand. 

The May was there, — the blue-eyed 

May ; 
The sweet south breeze came up the 

Fanning the river where it lay 
Voiceless, with astonished stare, — 
The great sea-drinking Delaware. 

There, in the broad, clear afternoon, 
"With myriad oars, and all in tune, 
A swarm of barges moved away, 
In all their grand regatta pride, 
As bright as in a blue lagoon, 
When gondolas from shore to shore 
Swam round the golden Bucentaur 
On a Venetian holiday, 
What time the Doge threw in the 

tide 
The ring which made the sea his 
bride. 

'Mid these were mighty platforms 

drawn, 
Each crowded like a festal lawn, — 
Great swimming floors, o'er which 

were rolled 
Cloth of scarlet, green, and gold, 
Like tropic isles of flowery light 
Unmoored by some enchanter's might, 
O'erflowed with music, floated down 
Before the wharf-assembled town. 

A thousand rowers rocked and sung, 
A thousand light oars flashed and 

flung 
A fairy rainbow where they sprung. 
Conjoining with the singers' voice. 

In ecstatic rival trial, 
Every instrument of choice, 

Mellow flute and silver viol, 
Wooed the soft air to rejoice ; 
Till on wings of splendor met, 



Clearer, louder, wilder yet, 
Clarion and clarionet, 
And the bugle's sailing tone, 
As from lips of tempests blown, 
Made the whole wide sky its own, 
Shivering with its festal jar 
The aerial dome afar. 

Thus the music past the town 
Winged the swimming pageant down, 
Till with one loud crash it dropt, 
And the bright flotilla stopt, 
Mooring in the bannered port 
At the flowery wharves of Sport. 

There wide triumphal arches flamed 
With painted trophies, which pro- 
claimed, 
With mottoes wrought in many a 

line 
Around some brave heraldic sign, 
That all the splendors here displayed 
Were honors to great chieftains paid. 

Pavilions round the field were spread, 
With flying banners overhead, 
Where, on a high and central throne, 
The two commanders reigned alone : 
The admiral, whose powdered hair 
Had oft been fanned by ocean air; 
The general, whose eye oft sped 
O'er fields transfused from green to 

red, 
As if the very plain should wear 
The hue his army held so dear, — 
Both deeming that the world must 

bow 
Before the awful name of Howe. 

And there, — oh, feast for painter's 

heart, 
And yet a light to mock his art, 
To kindle all a poet's fire, 
To waken, madden, and inspire, 
Yet leave him mastered and undone, 
As faints a taper in the sun, — 
Yes, there, in many a beaming row, 
Was lit such beauty as might glow 
Alone in fabled tourney-rings ; 
Held in those far enchanted scenes 
Where all are princesses and queens 
And all the jousting knights are 
kings. 

Such light was then our city's boast; 
And such, methinks, it has not lost : 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



289 



The features Stuart loved to trace 

And clothe in his immortal glow 
Are met by many a soul-lit face, 
Secured by Sully's touch of grace, 
As bright as theirs of long ago. 

O noble masters, might I here 

Seize the light pencil from your 
grasp, 
Then should the picture reappear 

Which vainly I attempt to clasp. 
What though the vision with me 

stays, 
The awkward pencil tamely strays, 
And leaves me, after all my cost, 
To sigh above my labor lost. 
But ye who have the conjuring will, 

The painter's gift, the poet's heart, 
Take the rough lines I cannot fill, 

And touch them with your clearer 
art. 

In middle of the central group — 
The fairest maidens of the troop, 
■Each in her flowing Turkish dress — 
Sat Esther, in her loveliness. 
A graceful turban bound her brow, 
Its end flung back in gauzy flow, 
And from its sides hung loops of 

pearls, 
Dripping among the golden curls, 
AVhile on its snowy front was set 
A diamond stellar coronet, 
And in the middle of the stars 
A red rose shone, like burning Mars ; 
The silken robe, of ample fold, 
Was white, and bound with belt of 

gold, 
O'er which a scarf of wondrous lace 



Her beauty thrilled the gazing crowd, 
And made the heart of Berkley 
glad; 
But if Sir Hugh that hour was 
proud, 
Still prouder was the stripling lad, 
Brave Ugo, who beside her chair, 
With height and form beyond his 

age, 
Stood near, her guardian and her 
page ; 
His large dark eyes and raven hair 
To hers made contrast rich and rare ; 
And, decked in Oriental suit, 
He looked a Turk from head to foot, 



Holding superb and tranquil mien, 
As by the throne of a sceptred queen. 

Now rang the bugle to the cloud ; 
And now seven knights, in brave 
attire 
Of white and scarlet gayly 

donned, 
On chargers well caparisoned, 
And each attended by his squire, 
Rode in before the admiring crowd ; 
And soft eyes sparkled brightly 
fond, 
As each before his lady bowed. 

Then rang the herald's trumpet 
higher, 
And swelled the challenge fiercely 
loud : — 
"The brave knights of ' The 
Blended Kose' 
Proclaim the fair whom they de- 
fend 
Are lovelier, nobler in their pride, 
Than all the world can show beside ; 
And he who dares this vaunt oppose 
We challenge to the direful 
end! - ' 

Three times abroad the vaunt was 

thrown ; 
And now another bugle blown, 
Flinging its scorn around the heaven, 
Ushered in the answering troop, — 
The gallant and defying seven, 
In suits of orange and of black, 
W T ith harnessed steeds and squires to 

back ; 
And these with proud and knightly 

stoop 
Made their obeisance to the fair 
Whose beauty they defended there. 

Then swelled the other herald's 

cry : — 
" ' The Knights of the Burning 

Mount' defy, 
And, in support of their ladies' 

charms, 
Challenge all chivalry to arms !" 

But how looked Esther on the scene ? 
Was there no pleasure in the place, 
To call the color to her face? 

A weary sadness veiled her mien ; 

Her eye, which took the splendor in, 

'Mid all the show no joy could win ; 



2-3 



290 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



For in her patriotic heart 
Another picture, far apart, 
Rose, with its drear, contrasted shade, 
Before her sympathetic eye, 

"Which glistened with a pitying 

damp. 
She saw the starving valley camp, 
And heard the sufferer's dying 
sigh- 
Saw all the bitter wants that 
weighed — 
Her country's only hope and trust — 
A noble army to the dust ; 
And even when her champion proud 
Bent low, a gallant knight in 
black, 
She scarcely noticed that he bowed ; 
Her sad eye paid no glances back. 

Again the flying bugle's flash 

Across the waiting scene was 
pealed ; 
Then came the sudden shock and 

dash 
Of spears that met in splintering 
crash 
On every loudly-ringing shield. • 
Then sword with sword together rang 
With many a fierce and fiery clang, 
As on some earnest battle-field. 

Oh for the pen which brave Froissart 
"Waved, sword-like, in the knightly 
van ! 

Oh for the pencil and the art 
Of battle-loving Wouverman ! 

That on my page might be unrolled 

Another tourney " cloth of gold" ! 

All eyes were on the struggle bent, 
And every gazer forward leant, 
Each breathless at the whirling 

sight, — 
When dashed in midst another 

knight, 
Driving the raging foes between, 
And, like a whirlwind, joined the 

scene. 

His tall and foaming steed was black, 
And reared and leapt with plunge 
and wheel ; 

And he who loomed upon his back 
Wore on his breast a plate of steel, 

While on his head a helmet shone 

With flying plume, — the visor down. 



The armor was embossed and rich, 

And seemed to Esther to recall 
The helmet and the breastplate which 
Formed part of that within the 
niche, — 
The ancestral suit of Berkley Hall ; 
As if the knight, so grim and tall, 
Finding the ancient form too small, 
Content to shield his head and breast, 
Had borrowed but cuirass and crest. 

His raining blows were swift and bold : 
No sooner was his weapon set 
'Gainst every lifted blade he met, 
Than flew that blade from out its 

hold; 
While many a bravest knight, 

alarmed, 
Recoiled apace, abashed, disarmed. 

But when he met the search ed-for foe, 
Fair Esther's champion in the list, 
His mighty hand could not resist, — 
He dealt an angry, giant's blow, — 
Perchance it was intended so: 

Somehow, the awkward weapon 
missed — 
It glanced beyond the approaching 

head, 
And on the "black knight's" mouth 
instead 
Alit the great hilt-clinching fist ! 
A blow that made the earth swim 

round, 
And sent him bleeding to the ground. 

Then, while the murmur questioned 

loud, 
He dashed to the wondering maid and 

bowed, 
And raised her white glove to his lip. 
Now seemed her eye to understand ; 
She guessed that form of high com- 
mand, 
And felt a folded paper slip 

Stealthily into her startled hand ; 
Then, like an eagle on flashing wing, 
He sailed beyond the wondering ring. 

All marvelled ; but few guessed the 
truth : 
They mostly thought it in the play ; 
And even the knights, with frowns 

uncouth, 
And many a savage inward oath, 
Were pleased among themselves to 
say 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



291 



That some hot-headed frolic youth 
Had chosen thus to share the day, 
By dashing in the jousting fray, 
To bear the highest prize away, 

And leave them all in wondering 
doubt, 

As oft in ancient tourney-bout. 

The two commanders, looking on, 
Approved the novel action done, 
And said, in accents loud and bluff, 
The brave surprise was well per- 
formed, 
And that it was aknightly thing, 
Although, perchance,' a little rough. 
And catching this, as from a king, 
The shout of joy ran round the 
ring, 
Till every clapping hand was 
warmed, 
To send the applause on circling 
wing. 
And now the day was wellnigh spent, 
And evening closed the tournament. 



THE BANQUET. 

Oh, merry and good is a blooming 
wood 

On a calm, clear afternoon, 
When every maid, in a flowery hood, 
Sings, as every maiden should 

In the leafy shades of June : — 
When every light form wears the 

proof 
Of what beneath her homestead roof 

The loom of Winter weaves, — 
The blue, and green, and scarlet woof, 

The white and flowing sleeves : — 
When every archer bends his bow, 
To bid the laughing arrow go 

Among the laughing leaves ! 

And merry the call toaChristmashall, 
Where nuts and ale abound, 

Where music, with gusty rise and 
fall, 

Chases the revellers dancing all 
In many a mazy round. 

But louder, clearer, merrier yet 
The music and mirth together met 
What time the evening feast was set 



And the tournament was through : 
The knights came in, each waving 

plume 
Sending a murmur through the room, 
And, bowing to eyes they deemed 

most sweet, 
Each knelt before his lad} r 's feet, 
To receive the trophy due. 

But where was Esther's champion? 
Had he no tourney-honor won ? 
And must the flower her turban 

wore . 
Remain unclaimed, and feel the blight 
Of all that withering festal light? 
She plucked the rose with fingers 

white, 
And tore the leaves before their sight, 
And strewed them on the floor. 

That feasting-hall was a sight to 

see, 
And, seen, it must remembered 

be: 
A hundred banners lined the wall, 

Festooning over swords and spears, 

And thrice a score of chandeliers 
Made such a glory through the hall 

As only summer noonday wears ; 
And inan}^ a mirror, wide and tall, 

Decked with flowers on golden piers, 
Caught the splendor, and echoed it all, 
As if to stretch the gorgeous place 
Into the outer halls of space, 

As it were to last a thousand years. 

All, all was bright as summer waves 

That sing and dance on a flowery 

shore, 

Where the billow decks the bank it 

laves 

With pearls, and then retreats for 

more. 
The only shadows around the feast 
Were a score of .turbaned, Nubian 
slaves 
Arrayed in livery of the East. 

The merriest sounds o'erflowed the 

scene, 
While flashed the brimming wine 

between, 
Where each, from the cup he loved 

to quaff, 
Caught something of its vineyard 

laus:h. 



292 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



There was whispered love, soft words 

of bliss, 
On lips Adonis would die to kiss, 

Bustle of silks, and rattle of fans, 
Tinkling of glasses, and, crowning 
this, 
Music that swelled from invisible 
clans : — 
Till, closing his eyes, the listener heard 
t The rush of a woodland waterfall, 
And all the leaves of the forest stirred 
By a flutter of wings, and the noisy 
call 
Of every loudest-throated bird. 

The feast was past, the toast was 

said, 
The inevitable speeches made, 
And the long-cheered, triumphant 

two 
Breathed easier, and drank anew. 

'Twas now that one of the leading 
knights 
Bowed, and, with soft persuasion 
long, 
Prayed, as a wreath to their delights, 
Our maid would crown the hour 
with song. 

In vain her timid lips demurred : 
The praise of her voice so much was 

heard, 
They would not take the denying 

word. 
In view of this, a harp had been, 
Onlv a moment past, brought in. 
And there in a flood of light it shone 
Golden on its waiting throne. 

At length, upon her father's arm, 
And~ bidding her page beside her 
sta} T , 
She went, though tremorous with 
alarm, 
And Andre, bowing, led the way. 
She gained the throne, and sat 
thereon : 
Her breath came short for such a 
need ; 
One glance across the room she sent, 
A thousand eyes were on her bent ; 
They seemed a thousand arrows 
drawn, 
And she the victim that must 
bleed. 



One long sustaining breath she drew, 
Her drooping lids shut out the view, — 
Till, suddenly dashing her veil aside, 
And flinging her golden ringlets wide, 
Her arms around the harp she pressed, 
Loving it with her loving breast, 
As if its touch her fears might 
smother. 
And now her hands along the 
strings 
Flashed daringly across each other, 
As when tw-» birds, at dividing wires, 
Outsinging all the woodland choirs, 
Flutter with half-invisible wings. 

When climbed her fingers high and 
higher, 
Twinkling among the treble notes 
There seemed unnumbered silver 
throats, 
Thrilling the sky with wild desire ; 
Then sudden lightnings flashed their 

fire, 
Till, in the heavier chords below, 
The thunder dealt its rumbling blow ; 
And now the rain was shivered down, 
And all the tempest-bugles blown. 

Then came her voice: at first 'twas low, 
Like a sweet brook among the 
rushes ; 
But, like that brook, its further flow 
Swelled soon to fuller, nobler 
gushes. 



SONG. 

i. 

In the vanished time and olden, 
Ere the ages yet were golden, 
A great king ruled his misty isles 
In sullen state alone, 
Till, hearing of a maiden 
With marvellous beauty laden, 
He swore she must be brought to him, 
To tend beside his throne. 



And forthwith every vassal 
Who dwelt beside his castle 
Was sent to bring the maiden in 
Before the morrow morn ; 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



293 



And straightway to her bower 
They went in all their power : 
But she met them with her noble mien 
And scorned them with her scorn. 



" Go, tell your tyrant master 
Earth threatens no disaster 
So direful to a maiden's soul 
As is a monarch's smile ; 
That Death shall wed me rather 
'Neath the roof-tree of my father, 
Than I should serve the greatest king 
That ever ruled an isle." 



IV. 

Then laughed they loud derision 
At the poor defenceless vision 
Of a simple maid who dared alone 
Defy their mighty king ; 
"Then come," they cried, "the 

trial ; 
Our lord brooks no denial : 
Your slender wrists must bear the 
bands 
Our master bade us brin<r." 



But, firm in her reliance, 
With a glance of fierce defiance 
She looked into their cowering eyes, 
That drooped as in disgrace ! 
But, remembering royal anger, 
With a sudden clash and clangor 
They drew their mighty falchions 
forth 
And flashed them in her face. 



VI. 



A moment, as in sadness, 
She looked upon their madness, 
With calm, white arms serenely there 
Upon her bosom laid ; 
Then, with no thrill of terror, 
But smiling at their error, 
Three times she clapped her snowy 
hands, 
And signalled thus for aid. 



Three times her palms resounded, 
And at once she stood surrounded 
By noble brothers rushing in 
From every native field: 
Their forms were rough and tawny, 
But their limbs were lithe and 
brawny, 
And, instead of taking captives there, 
The captors now must yield. 



And, against their own consenting, 
She sent them back repenting. 
The mad king cropt their coward ears 
To satisfy his wrath : 
And still that noble maiden, 
With all her beauty laden, 
Went singing on her happy way, 
With honor in her path. 

Scarce had the last word left her 

tongue, 
And while the chord still trembling 

hung 
From which the bird-like note had 

sprung, 
There rose a tumult wild without, 20 

A hurried rush of loud alarms, 
The flash of flames, the sentinel's 
shout, 
With startled drums that beat to 
arms. 
The shuddering guests no more could 

doubt, 
But quaked to think the rebel crew 
Had burst in all their midnight 

power 
Upon them, in their revel hour, 
To act the Trenton scene anew. 

What meant that glow whose fearful 

shine 
Illumined the abatis-line, 
Which fired the scene, as if to light 
The horrors of the coming fight? 

Now could they hear the mounted 

troop 
Like hungry vultures round them 

swoop, 
And see the clattering hoofs of steel 
Where lightning flashed from every 

heel. 



294 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



Out rushed the guardian ranks aflame, 
To put the intruding crew to shame ; 
But, strange to tell, without a blow, 
To say that there had been the foe, 
The troopers fled, and left behind 
Their mocking laughter on the wind. 

The guards pursued them past the 

town, 
By the same road which brought them 

down, 
And soon the sentinels descried 
The line returning, flushed with pride. 

Then laughter filled the hall again, 
AVhile pleasure took the place of pain, 
And every happy face was lit 
"With this fresh source of mirth and 

wit, 
And music spread its circling wing 
To lead the dance in ampler swing. 

But what was wrong ? "What ailed 

Sir Hugh ? 
"Why sought he thus the assembly 

through ? 
"What were thcquestionshewould pour 
At every outward-leading door? 
At last he stood, with sigh long 

drawn, — 
Both Ugo and the maid were gone. 

One said that while the guardian troop 

Had gone to beat the rebels back, 
He saw descend a hasty group 

Across the lawn, and some were 
black,— 
A part of that same turbaned horde 
"Who tended while the wine was 

poured, — 
And that they moved towards a 
barque : — 
To shield them, then, the white 

moon bowed 
Behind a heavy wall of cloud: — 
He saw no more, for all was dark. 



IY. 

THE BROTHERS. 

"What light illumes the eagle's ken, 
And flames his breast with Free- 
dom's rage, 

The first wild daring instant w r hen 
He soars beyond his broken cage ! 



How glows the lion's eye of fire, 
Brighter than lit with midnight ire, 
The moment when he sees the bar 
Half drawn that leaves the door ajar/ 
How proudly he exalts his mane 
That first hour on the open plain ! 

When from the winter's captive hold 
The young spring takes the freedom 
won, 

"While all his fetters crystal cold 
Melt like a vision in the sun : — 

Then every river, brook, and rill 
Peels its deep heart with pleasure 

thrill ; 
Then sing the birds, and every tree 
"Waves its gay hands for jollity. 

What joy, my own dear land, was 

thine, 
"What pleasure filled thy breast of 

sorrow, 
As if the heart were pulsing wine, — 
"What glorious sunshine filled the 

noon 
That cloudless, jubilant day in June 
"Which said, "The foe will leave 

to-morrow !" 

" To-morrow !" every glad eye-glance 
To that sweet music seemed to dance : 
Youth spread the shout from first to 
last, 
And Age new vigor seemed to bor- 
row, 
And stranger-faces, as they passed, 
Looked that masonic word, " To- 
morrow I" 

The happy country heard afar 
The answer of its long desires ; 
Swift sped the news from hill to 

hill, 
O'er plain and valley wandering 
still, 
As if on every mountain-bar 
Was lit the flame of signal-fires. 

And there were eyes in Berkley Hall, 
That, bright before, were now 
more bright — 
Young breasts that in their rise and 
fall 
Were thrilled with uncontrolled 
delight. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



295 



Yet there beneath the Berkley roof 
Were looks that angered at the 

proof, — 
Dark, sullen brows, which seemed to 

say 
The morn would bring a hateful day. 
'Twas hard to see the old reins slip 
From out their doting monarch's grip; 
And so, to nerve them for the worst, 
The purple flask must cheer the 

hour, 
That they at least might slake their 

thirst 
For wine, if not for tyrant power. 

" To-morrow, Colonel, you depart :" 

This was the greeting of Sir Hugh. 
" Believe me when I say my heart 

Is sad to part with such as you. 
I hoped ere this — but hopes are vain : 

There is a higher Wisdom rules: — 
Though wise His ways, they are not 
plain : 

'Tis strange, and yet He sometimes 
deigns 

To give an empire's guiding reins 
Into the hard} 7 " hands of fools : — 
I hoped ere this — that hope at least 

Holdsgood,andshall not bedenied — 
To see my family-board increased, 

To see ni3 T daughter at your side 

A lovely and contented bride. 

" How stands your glass ? The room 
is dim : 

Methinks the twilight settles soon, 

In spite of the long days of June ; 

And yonder rises the red moon, 
As if wine flushed her golden brim. 
So flush 3-our glass ; for wine, in truth, 

Which sparkles in these founts of 
ours, 
Is that perpetual Spring of Youth 
Which Poncede Leon strove, forsooth, 

To find within the land of flowers. 
Then never let our spirits sink, 

Though Time and Fate their worst 
pursue, 
While at the bacchanalian brink 

Our hearts their courage may renew. 

" Ay, courage, — 'tis the soldier's 

word : 

The hour is brighter than it seems ; 

To-day, even while you stood deterred, 

I caught from hope some clearer 

gleams. 



" Did you not notice, when we came, 
And after my first warm embrace, 
How flushed her cheek and eye with 
flame 
When she looked up and saw your 
face ? 

I felt her little wild heart leap, 
That moment, in my clasping hand : 

For Love, when he would safely keep 
His head in secret hiding deep, 
Is but an ostrich in the sand. 

" What though her look no hope 

awakes, 

Bepelling with disdainful eye, 

'Tis but the course the salmon takes, 

In scornful distance pausing shy ; 

Just when you think your toil is 

vain, 
And when he chiefly shows disdain, 
With sudden whirl he takes the 
fly! 
What though her mien conceals the 

spell, 
Believe me, friend, she loves you well. 

"Who spoke? Who dared to give 
the lie ? 
Ho, Steward! lights!" 

The lights were brought, 
And every secret hiding-place 
Was peered into with angry face. 
The furious searching furnished 
naught 
To meet his pistol's ready rage, 
Except a parrot in his cage : 
Yes, surely 'twas that silly bird 
Who uttered the obnoxious word. 
They laughed, and sat : the wine must 

serve 
To smooth again the ruffled nerve. 

II To prove, my friend, my words 

sincere, 

I have the paper ready here." 

Thus spake Sir Hugh. " It only 
waits 

For the contracting names and dates : 

'Tis quickly done. There, mine se- 
cures 

The seal; and now, my friend, for 
yours. 

By Jove ! your pen flies o'er the 
word 

With all the flourish of a sword ! 



296 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



"The maiden's name? Ah, never 
doubt : 

That with the rest shall soon appear. 
Ho, Steward, seek your mistress out 

And hid her to attend me here !" 

In Berkley's breast resolve was stern, 
For in his proud parental heart, 
Remembering with what willing art 
Her favor took the patriots' part, 

He felt a deep resentment burn. 
Although he loved her fondly still, 

Yet, though all else should be denied, 
She should not set her rebel will 

Against this last hope of his pride : 

It may be that the flush of wine 

Gave vigor to his fixed design. 

Young Esther came : her eye was 
bright 

As if 'twere brimmed with love's own 
light ; 

Then flowed her maiden accents clear, 

"What would you, father? 1 am 
here." 

" A trifling service," he replied ; — 
There was a strangeness in the tone 
"Which turned her inmost heart to 
stone : — 
" Before these written names are dried, 
Let yours be drying at their side." 

"With wondering countenance ad- 
vanced, 
Her eye across the paper glanced ; 
Her visage showed a lightning- 
blight,— 
The color from her cheek was blown, 
As when from off some festal height 
The fierce bolt strikes the banner 
down. 

Before her flashed the ready quill, 
The black blood waiting at the 
point ; 
Across her swept a deathly chill 

That agued every sinking joint : 
A very statue, mute and white, 
She stood, till came the order, 
"Write!" 

" Nay, father: any thing but this, — 
If 'twere to die at your command !" 

He answered, " My sole order is 
To write! The pen is in your 
hand!" 



'Twas there ; for he had placed it 
there, — 
He seized her by the slender wrist. — 
" Oh, help !" she cried. 

" Nay, to assist 
In your rebellion who shall dare?" 
He answered firmly, at the word, 
Tapping his pistol and his sword. 

Her hand was on the paper prest : 
Both watched it with their anxious 
ken ; 
The blood was curdling in her breast, 
A deadly pallor veiled her mien, 
The room swam round in darkness, 
— when 
An iron hand was thrust between, 
Which snatched and crushed the 
crackling pen ! 

Three paces back, with shuddering 

reel, 
All started, in their horror dumb ; 
Their tongues even as their hearts 

were numb ; 
For there a voiceless form of steel 
Stood glowering as with threatening 

will ; 
For, though the visor close was 

down, 
The very iron seemed to frown, 
The clinching gauntlet grasping 

still 
The crumpled remnant of the quill. 
Within the waning light and gloom 
To giant size it seemed to loom : 
Such necromantic power has fright 
To give to objects double height. 

While now the gazers stood aghast, 

The form, with slow and backward 
pace, 

Confronting still with iron face, 
Retiring, reached the throne at last 

Where stood the maiden's harp of 
gold. 
Still paler grew the lights and dim, — 

Or so the frighted fancy told, — 
While phantom lustre seemed to swim 
About that form so ghostly grim ; 
And, just behind, the moon's broad 
rim 

Seemed to the very casement rolled, 
A spectral chariot waiting him : 

The gazers' blood ran doubly cold 
And palsied every limb. 



THE WAGONER OF 


THE ALLEGHANIES. 297 


But stranger still it was to see 


in. 


The form slow sinking on one knee, 




Upon the harp's enthroning stand, 


Your royal cause is lost, Sir Hugh ; 


While in his stretching arms he took 


Your king recoils aghast ; 


The frame, whose chords in terror 


His day of tyrant power is past : 


shook 


Of all his friends you are the last, 


Ere scarce they felt the iron hand. 


Last of your cause and name are 


Slow o'er the strings the gauntlets 


y° u > 

Sir Hugh, 


stole : — 


The last of all are you. 


(That gloves of steel showed little 

skill 
In answering to the player's will, 




IV. 


Such audience would scarcely won- 




der;)— 


The last of all are you, Sir Hugh, 


But, with a strange, weird music 


Echoes the owl aloof, — 


still, 


The last of all, — upon the roof 


That wailed above, then rumbled 


The whippoorwill prolongs the 


under, 


proof: — 


He played as 'twere a funeral dole 


Adieu to Berklev Hall, — adieu, 


Chanted by distant winds and 


Sir Hugh', 


thunder ; 


To Berkley Hall adieu. 


And when from out the helmet broke 




The words in many a dying close, 


"Behold! Sir Hugh, be not dis- 


It seemed as if a cavern spoke 


mayed!" 


The burden of long-hidden woes. 


The suitor cried, and drew his blade. 




" Do you not see it is the same 




Who boldly to our tourney came 


SONG. 


A rough, unbidden guest and foe ? 




I have not yet forgiven the blow : 


I. 


Though it were years, in twice the 




gloom 


A shade has crossed the hill, Sir 


I still would know that helm and 


Hugh, 


plume." 


A shade has crossed the lawn ; 




And where its phantom feet have 


Through Berkley's brain the light- 


gone, 


ning sped, 


So lightly were they pressed there- 


And, casting round his glances 


on, 


quick, 


They did not brush the evening 


Sir Hugh the empty niche espied ; 


dew, 


Then, with an angry laugh, he 


Sir Hugh, 


cried, 


They did not brush the dew. 


"A trick! Bv heaven! a rebel 




trick!" 


ii. 


And scarcely had the words been 
said, 
The room was blinded with a flash : 


A gloom is on your house, Sir 


Hugh, 


The iron vision forward sprung, 


Your sire frowns on the wall, — 


And reeled the frighted group among ; 


Where frown those painted shad- 


And now the floor received the 


ows all, 


crash 


Now pale and shuddering o'er your 


Of one who falls in armor dead. 


fall : 


Alas ! if there was aught within 


The last of all the name are you, 


But ghost, to brave that bolt of lead, 


Sir Hugh, 


That shining breastplate was too 


The last of all are you. 


thin ! 



29S 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



The door, by sudden fury thrust, 
Swung wide, and hurrying men 
strode in, 
And one, whose voice was like a gust, 
Cried, " Wherefore all this murder- 
ous din?" 
Then, following Sir Hugh's wild stare, 
He saw the fallen armor there, 
And saw from out the iron seam 
A mortal tide of crimson stream. 
With hurried stride he crossed the 

floor, 
And knelt beside the pool of gore, 
With rapid hand the visor threw, 
And started backward at the view, 
One look told all, — no need of more: — 
from out its sheath his weapon flew. 

"Behold," he cried, "O wretch, 

behold 
The murderous work your hand has 

done ! 
Ay, stare upon that visage cold, 

And recognize, mad fool, your son ! 
But, while there's strength within 

this hand 
And steel of vengeance in this brand, 
Your heart shall pour a stream as 

good, 
Even though I shed a brother's 

bloodV' 

That moment he had forward sprung, 
But Esther on his right arm flung 
Her form, and there she pleading 
clung. 

Then stood Sir Hugh as one who seems 
Chained amid horrid nightmare- 
dreams ; 
Though fain to fly the sight of gore, 
His feet were frozen to the floor. 
At length he stammered, still with 

stare 
Fixed on the pallid visage there, 
" A lie ! — a lie ! I had no son, 
And surely never such a one !" 

To which the other cried again, 
" Thyson, proud fool, and son of her 

Whose noble heart by you was 
slain, — 
O cold and double murderer !" 

Still staring with unmoving eye, 
He said, — or gather seemed to sigh, — 



" I never killed her : if she died, 

It was not here " 

"Your bitter pride 
Struck at her heart, until her brain 
By many a cold, proud word was 

slain !" 
The wagoner answered ; and the taunt 
At last awoke the Berkley blood. 

"Who dares," he cried, in furious 
mood, 
"Thus in my face such words to 

flaunt ? 
And who art thou, who ne'er before 

Save once, a rude, unwelcome guest, 
Was known to enter at my door? 
What rebel thou, whose coward breast 
Dares breathe the insult uttered 
now ?" 

" Pray, not so fast," the other cried. 

" A moment clear your clouded 
brow, 

And let your memory allow 
I am not one to be defied ! 
That picture there may well attest 
Whose courage ever was the best, 
And which it was who quaked with 

fear 
The moment danger came too near. 
I scorned 'you even as a child, 

Proud, cold, and selfish as you were ; 
A younger brother, oft reviled, 

I would not be your pensioner, 
And so I left you to yourself, 
With all your boasted pride and pelf. 

" A rebel ! — nay, let that foul name 
Flush your own coward cheek with 

shame : 
'Tis ye are black Rebellion's knaves, 
Traitors to Freedom and to God, 
W^ho dare upon this sacred sod 
Exalt the slave-compelling rod, 
Being slaves yourselves, to make us 
slaves ! 

"While throbs a heart, — while Hea- 
ven is just, — 
While on the banner of our trust 
One star remains to fight beneath, 
No blade of ours shall seek its 

sheath, 
No cannon hold its direful breath, 
Till on the bitter field of death 
The bold enslaver bites the dust. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



299 



Already, even as pictured there, 
The joy has oft been mine to take 
In this good grasp the tyrant snake 

And fling him writhing in despair." 

"My brother, thou?" Sir Hugh re- 
plied, 
The while the wagoner's form he 

eyed, 
Scanning in scorn, from head to foot, 
The patriot's rough and rustic suit. 
" 'Tis false ! No Berkley scion yet 
His high-born lineage could forget, 
To wear such rude and menial form 
And be the thing which thou art 
now !" — 
He spake, and back recoiled a pace 
Before the anger of that face : 
He dared no further brook the storm 
Which gathered on that threaten- 
ing brow. 
But now his troubled e} T e again 
Was cast upon the stripling slain, 
And, with a look which strove in 

vain 
To hide the doubt within his brain, 
He cried, " 'Tis false ! No b,lood of 
mine 
E'er wandered vagrant through the 

land ; 
No Berkley son would raise a hand 
In honor of the rebel line ! 

No child of mine " 

His speech was stayed ; 
He glared upon the trembling maid. 
"Well mayst thou tremble!" he re- 
sumed, 
" And sink with burning shame con- 
sumed, 
Whose recreant heart and rebel eye 
Now give our loyal blood the lie ! 
'Tis thou, with disobedience long, 
This sad and direful scene hast 

wrought, — 
Firing the youth with rebel thought 
And filling his soul with rebel song; 
But that shall end!" And, at the 

word, 
Across the harp he flashed his sword 
And severed every trembling chord. 



this was the wagoner's 



"Strike on ! 
taunt 

" Such courage ever was your vaunt 
With no more stripling sons to kill, 
On other innocents wreak vour fill !' 



"Still must I hear?" Sir Hugh re- 
plied ; 
" Are my assertions all denied? 
The boy was never son of mine, 
Though harbored long beneath my 
roof : 
In shades condemned, or realms 

divine, 
That truant woman's wandering ghost 
No Berkley oflspring dares to boast : — 
I challenge every proof!" 

The wagoner turned, and whispered, 

"Hark ! 
What newer misery thrills the dark? 
What voice is that approaching near? 
Sir Hugh ! — Sir Hugh ! — look up and 

hear!" 

Thus as he spoke, a mournful air 
Seemed winding down the shadowy 

stair, 
Still nearing and more near ; and soon 
The words came clearly with the tune. 



SONG. 
i. 

Oh, cold was the bridegroom. 

All frozen with pride : 
He first slew her lover, 

Then made her his bride. 

ii. 



Beneath a green willow, 
And under a stone, 

They buried her lover, 
And left her alone. 



With naught but the bridegroom' 
Proud breast for her head, 

Oh, how could she live when 
Her lover was dead ? 



Her hody they buried 
Beside the church wall ; 

Her ghost with the bridegroom 
Sat up in. the hall :-»- 



300 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



V. 



Sat up at his table, 

Lay down in his bed : — 

Oh, cold was the bridegroom, — 
But colder the dead ! 

The singer entered. Was it a ghost, 
Or sleeper walking unaware? 

Her large eyes, as in revery lost, 
Bent forward their unearthly stare ; 
"Wild o'er her shoulders fell her 
hair ; 

Her face was like her garments white ; 

Her thin hands bore a wavering light, 

Which shed a pale and mournful 
glare 

Across those features of despair. 

Still forward walked that form of awe, 
As if her wide eyes nothing saw, 
Until, in middle of the room, 
The centre of that scene of gloom, 
She cast a slow, dull glance around, 
And looked as she had nothing found : 
Across their very faces past 

Those eyes to which all seemed a 
blank, 
Till on the floor her glance was cast ; 
And there, as that look was her last, 
She gazed upon those features white ; 
From out her fingers dropt the light, 

And on the armored breast she 
sank. 

It needed but that last wild gust 
Of grief to blow from Nora's frame 
Life's low, unsteady, flickering 
flame, 

And leave it dark and soulless dust. 

" Sir Hugh!— Sir Hugh!" He was 

not there : 
Sir Hugh was gone, they knew not 

where. 

But there the haughty suitor stood, 
His bright sword flashing in his 

hand, 
As if the keen, defying brand 

His nuptial claim should still make 



This saw the wagoner, as he laid 
On Edgar's arm the fainting maid ; 
And, ere the soldier was aware, 
He stood without a weapon there : 



His sword was in the patriot's hold, 

Who with a look of scorn surveyed 
The lace so lately flushed and bold ; 
Then, with contemptuous movement 
fleet, 
Across his knee he snapped the 
blade, 
And flung it at the wearer's feet, 
And now, the wide door pointing 
through, 
Exclaimed, with sad but threatening 

brow, 
" Depart ! The place is sacred now : 
Go, follow thou Sir Hugh 1" 



CONCLUSION. 

My friend abruptly closed the book : 

1 felt as one who long had sailed 
Gazing with anxious landward look, — 
Who, just as the fair port is hailed, 
And the rough prow goes dipping in, 
Suddenly hears the anchor's din, 
And, lo ! the ship is at full stand : 
There move the people on the land, 
And there are voices from the beach, 
But mournfully all out of reach. 

My face the crowding questions wore ■ 

He said, " A little patience yet, 
And soon the landing skiff and oar 

Your feet upon the shore shall set." 
Then at the sinking fire his hands 
Gathered and piled the sundered 

brands, 
Until the hearth was reillumed : 

" 'Tis thus," he said, "the story 
stands : — 

A fallen end or two demands 
To be regathered and consumed. 

" How goes the wine? 'Tis rare and 
old: 

Or do you taste the earthy mould ? 

Some seasons past, while men of mine 
Were hollowing out an ample space 
To give our hothouse-wall its base, 
I stood to watch them bravely delve 

And see they followed well the line, 
When suddenly to its very helve 

The pick w 7 ent in with crush and crash, 

Spattering all with a purple splash ; 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



301 



And when withdrawn — oh, murder- 
ous sign ! — 
'Twas bathed in the streaming blood 

of wine. 
How it came there to you is plain, 
And this brings up Sir Hugh again. 
'Tis said that on that night of pain 
He rushed into the moonlit air, 
And sped for hours he knew not 

where, 
Through fields and woods, by the 

river's brim, 
"With two sad phantoms following 

him ; — 
How once, just as he thought he saw 
The crowning horror of his awe, 
The murdered stripling in his path 
Rise with confronting eyes of wrath, 
He reeled and staggered, fainted, fell, 
And lay at the feet of a sentinel ; 
And when he awoke, and the horrid 

mists 
From off his aching brow were 

blown, 
He found himself within the town, 
Among the guards of the royalists. 

" He recognized the hand of Fate ; 

And, after writing a hurried scrawl, 

Giving his daughter Berkley Hall 21 
And his blessing with the broad estate, 
He boarded a ship and felt more free 

While bidding adieu to river and 
bay ; 

But his heart was withering day by 
day, 
And at last they buried him far at sea. 

" The lovers ? Ah, more sweet the lay 
Should be which sings of those so 
dear : 
It is not long since, old and gray, 
My sainted parents passed from 
here. 

" If 'twere not that the fire is low, 
And chanticleer awakes to throw 

His midnight signal on the air, 
A sacred scene should newly glow 

Of that beloved and loving pair. 

" My mother's favorite seat was there, 
And this my father's high-backed 

chair : 
How clearly cornea the long-gonescene 
When I a child sat here between ! 



"One night, — I well recall thehour, — 
Just when our second war was past, 
The winds were howling o*er the tower, 
The snow its gulfy deluge poured, 
And up the chimney like a blast 
The flame from off the hickory 
roared, 
Against the outer door a blow 

Sounded like a blacksmith's sledge, 

And, waiting no further privilege, 

Entered, it seemed, the Prince of 

Snow, — 
A veteran of giant height, 
With wild locks like his garments 

white. 
The heavy stamping and the beat, 
Which piled a drift within the hall, 
Eang through the house and 
wakened all 
The echoes to announce his feet. 
So thick the cloud he scattered wide, 
And so majestic was the fling, 
He seemed a very arctic king 
Throwing his furry robe aside. 

" My sire, awakened by the stir, 
Gazed through the door with shaded 

eyes, 
Puzzled a moment with vague sur- 
prise ; 
But when he saw that giant size, 
And heard the voice of bluff replies, 
He knew and welcomed the Wagoner. 

" Had you beheld him stride the floor, 
You ne'er had guessed how many a 

score 
Of years had blown their changeful air 
Through those white locks to whiten 

there. 

" We offered him this cushioned seat : 
He took yon great oak chair in- 
stead, — 
It felt more saddle-like, he said, — 
And flung him down with wide- 
spread feet. 

"''Tis seventy years,' he cried, 'or 
more, 
Since first I backed a good stout 

steed ; 
And though to-day with as fearless 
speed 
I rode as in the days of yore, 



2G 



302 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 



It boots not to prolong the strife : 
That brave, old-fashioned, cheery life 
Is ended. My contented grip 
Resigns at last the guiding reins : 
No more my bells o'er hills and 

plains 
Shall ring, as once, through these 
domains. 
And therefore I have brought my 
whip, 
To hang it up in Berkley Hall, 
To see it grace yon antlers tall 
Which hold those old swords on the 
wall, 
The rusty weapons of Sir Hugh : 
The honor is its well-earned due.' 

" "We welcomed him with hearty will, 
And wished him many bright years 

still, 
Then brought the wine — we knew the 

sort — 
And brimmed a goblet with old port. 
Through the red cup he gazed awhile, 
In musing, with a strange, sad smile. 

"'Good Uncle Ralph,' my mother 
sighed, 
Dropping the embroidery in her lap, 
' One question I have often tried 
To solve ; and yet, through some 
mishap, 
It seems conjecture wandered wide : 
But you, I think, can solve for me 
Poor Nora's mournful history.' 

" The old man looked at her a space, 
Looked vaguely in her upturned face, 
As if endeavoring to recall 

The far scenes of the past, and 

said, — 
1 For her sake you should know it 

all, 
For my sake, too, when I am dead ; 
But first, my friends, let me make 

clear 
The reason I to-night am here. 

" ' Beside the old churchyard to-day 
The surly sexton crossed my way : 
He glared at me with sidelong leer, 

And flung his spade across the wall. 
Just then a hurrying team drew near : 

The horses, wagon, bells, and all 
(Believe me, 'twas a marvellous sign) 
Seemed like the very ghosts of mine ; 



The driver — for once I held my breath, 

To see the flash 

Of his maniac lash — 
"Was a rattling skeleton, grim and 

tall; 
His shout was the hollow shout of 

Death ! 

" ' My team, with many a plunge and 

rear, 
Went mad, then stood like frighted 
deer, 
"While I sat like a girl aghast, 
Until that awful wagoner passed ; 
And when I looked behind, 'twas 

gone, 
And we were in the road alone. 

" ' Think not that superstitious fright 
Could cheat my ear or mock my 

sight; 
Although the calendar counts me 

old, 
M} T heart is as the youngest bold. 
Brave Percy, when his charger stood 
First on the field of Brandy wine, 22 
i Beheld, in clear, prophetic mood, 
I The spot which should receive his 
blood ; 
He saw his form's distinct outline 
I Stretched on the sod, — his steed, in 
fright, 
Dashing riderless through the fight ; 
Then instantly he galloped on, 
And sought the fate he could not 
shun. 

" ' It is a bitter night ; the cold 

For the first time now makes me 

old: 
Another cup of this warm wine 
Perchance will give the blood a 

start, 
And thaw the chill about my heart, 
And clear this hazy brain of mine.' 

"Again his vague eye scanned the 

glass, 
As if he saw old memories pass 

In many a long and wavering line ; 
And, as he held the glowing cup 
Between him and the lamp-light up, 
The color of the deep wine threw 
Across his face a purple hue : 
I could but shudder where I stood, 
It looked so like a dash of blood. 



THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHAXIES. 



303 



" At last he spoke in under-tone, — 
' Those grand old times are past and 

gone ; 
But, Esther,' — here his eye grew 

bright 
With something of its former light, — 
' Do yon remember how of old 
Around our cause your numbers 
rolled? 
I ever loved a fiery song ; 
But there was something in your 

voice 
"Which made the listener's heart re- 
joice, 
His eye of courage burn more bright, 
And filled him with a fierce delight 
That did not to the words belong : 
To hear again such music sung 
Would make a veteran heart grow 
young.' 

"My mother's cheek turned some- 
what red 

To hear the praise so bluffly said ; 

It seemed to bring the vanished days 

What time her song was used to 
praise. 

She looked, and smiled, and shook 
her head, 
And said her voice had lost its 
power, 

Her singing summer day had sped, 
And she was in her autumn bower ; 

The water of a spring-time brook 
Makes plenteous music through the 
land, 

But surely 'twas an idle look 

Which sought it in October's sand ; 

Her harp, too, since that night of 
pain 

Had never known its chords again. 

" But still within her secret breast 
She thought to humor him were 

best : 
What though her voice had somewhat 

failed, 
His aged ear, so long assailed 

By Winter, could not be o'er-nice, 
The sense so long inured to storm 
Might deem the cadence still was 

warm, 
Nor note its chill of autumn ice: — 
And thus, to please an old man's 

whim, 
With folded hands, she sang to him. 



SONG. 



When sailed our swift eagle 
O'er valley and highland, 

The foe, like a sea-gull, 
Fled back to his island, — 

Fled back to his king-land, 
His home in the ocean, — 

The white cliffs of England, 
■ His pride and devotion. 



II. 

Now peace and contentment 

Fill cottage and manor ; 
No star of resentment 

Is lit on our banner. 
Our cannon is sleeping 

The port-shadows under ; 
The spell in its keeping 

Let naught break asunder. 



The impotent taunt let 

Go by, — the wind brings it; 
But not the red gauntlet, 

No matter who flings it. 
Who palters and falters, 

Ne'er hearken his story, 
But strike for your altars, 

For Freedom and Glory. 



" ' Nay, never say,' the old man cried, 
' Your voice is like a brooklet dried ; 
But rather say 'tis filled again, 
O'erflowing with the autumn rain. 

" ' It carries me back, both brain and 
heart, 

As if a gale swept o'er the scroll ; 

I see the storied past unroll ; 
And now, methinks, I may impart 

Something of Nora and the child. 

" My memory is a restive colt, 

Stubborn at times, contrary, wild, 
At the wrong moment apt to bolt; 
But wine upon an old man's lip, 
To such a steed, is spur and whip.' 



304 



A SUMMER STORY. 



"Then laughed he his accustomed 
laugh, 
That shook the glasses on the board, 
And, with a long and breathless 
quaff, 
The wine across his lip was poured : 
The goblet dropt from out his hold, 
And crashed to fragments on the' 
floor ; 
Slow sank his chin, slow drooped his 

lid, 
His heavy hands beside him slid ; 



He slept,— ay, slept, — but breathed 
no more, 
And left the story still untold. 

" As when some monarch of the trees, 

Which held so long defiant state 

Against the lightning and the gale, 

O'erborne at last by its own 

weight, 

While laughing in the passing breeze. 

Falls prone in the astonished vale, — 

So fell our grand old Hercules." 



A SUMMER STORY. 



" The simple story of two lovers young." — Shelley. 



TO H. D. K. 

My nobler self, before me there, 
You sit with tresses backward 

rolled, 
A glossy flood of delicate gold, 
Relieved by the plush of the purple 

chair, 
And into those eyes of violet-blue 
I gaze till my heart, in a depth of dew, 
Melts, and all their celestial hue 
Veils me in Etrurian mist, 
And floods my soul with amethyst. 
From beautiful brow to rounded chin, 
The pale rose, under the pearly skin, 
Glows like a glow-worm in the cell 
Of a rare translucent lily-bell, 
The while along your tender cheek 
Light flushes of pleasure play hide- 
and-seek, 
And on your spotless teeth of snow, 
The heart its reddest bloom has 

set, 
The sweetest and dewiest that ever 

yet 
On womanly lip was seen to glow : — 
Thus while you sit in your beauty 

and bloom, 
Helped on by the kindly light of 

your glance, 
With silver shuttle and golden loom 
I weave for you this light romance. 



A SUMMEE STORY. 

My beautiful Ralph and Rosalie, 
They live in a village of ancient elms, 
Whose depth of shade the town o'er- 

whelms — 
Like sunbeams through the shadows 

cool, 
For years they have brightened the 

path to school ; 

Their lightsome feet, 
And laughter sweet, 
Making a May-day in the street: — 

A May-day, every day of the year ! 
With lilacs and violets breathing near, 
Dewy and odorous, fresh and clear ; 
And each is crowned with the flowers 

that blow 
In the scented deeps of the heart 

below, 
In the dawn and the dew of Love's 

young morn : — 
Wake, herald, awakeyoursilverhorn ! 
Till the sordid many, and noble few, 
Shall know at last on earth are two — 
A gain to us, to heaven a loss — 
A golden pair not marred with dross, 
Born in a glowing Ophirian grove 
In an El-Dorado realm of love. 



A SUMMER STORY. 



305 



My beautiful Kalph and Rosalie, 
They are wandering down where 
the fields are blithe, 
Through butterfly lanes, over butter- 
cup banks, 
Where the sweet-brier breathes its 
odorous thanks 

To the sun and the air, 
While here and there 
A fragrance springs, 
On invisible wings, 
Up from the clover that dies on the 
scythe. 

A little further, they find the brook, 
And their faces catch the laughing 

look 
Of the liquid sprite o'erwreathed with 

glee, 
With dimples changing instantly, 
And bubbles that saucily wink as they 

pass 
Coquetting among the rushes and 

grass. 

Oh, next to being a human soul, 
AVith a destiny higher than earth's 

control, 
'Twere to be a never-failing stream, 
With the crystal wealth of the hills 

to teem 
.For ever and ever, and sing alway 
Through meadows green and forests 

gray, 
Over pebbles brown, and sands of 

gold, 
Hither and thither sportively rolled, 
To leap, as it were, at a lover's call, 
With clapping hands, from the dizzy 

fall, 
And fling the silvery spray on high, 
An incense to the loving sky, 
And, with this mystic veil o'errun, 
Call out young Iris from the sun. 

Already, barefooted, my beautiful 

boy 
Has leapt to mid-stream, with that 

jubilant joy 
Which only youth knows, and he 

stands with his tresses 
Thrown free to the sunlight that 

goldenly blesses. 
Full twice seven summers and one, 
Those tresses have deepened and 

curled in the sun. 



"Oh, come!" he looks, — 'twas but 
the call 
That spoke from out his lustrous 
eye, 
Two souls in such sweet tender thrall 
May still commune though speech 
should die. 
It cannot be resisted — see ! 

The dainty slipper-shoon are drawn , 
The stockings follow ; light as a 

fawn 
She steps adown the daisy lawn, 
And meets his laugh with maiden 

glee. 
A little chill — a breath caught in, 
And under the crystal, the delicate 

skin 
Of the lovely feet of the beautiful 

girl, 
Shine pure as opalescent pearl ; 
And as she moves with gentle stir, 
Feels crystal anklets clasped on her 
By watery fingers, and hung with 

bells 
Of bubbles that ring their own quick 
knells. 

Ralph takes her delicate hand in 

his, 

He puts one arm about her waist, 

So fearful those dear feet might miss, 

If on a slippery slant stone placed. 

With laugh and blush they onward 

wade 
Till at last their beautiful limbs in- 
vade 
That deeper pool, with swifter swells, 
Where the hermit trout securely 

dwells, 
Of which the baffled fisherman tells — 
That fabulous trout in every stream, 
Haunting the anxious angler's dream. 

A little waterfall just ahead 
"Breaks to spray on the rocky bed ; 
The rocks are mantled with mosses 

green, 
And tangled wild vines half-way 

screen 
The face of the fall, till it seems to be 
A cell for the hermit Secrecy. 

And in front of this fall an island 
lies, — 
A couch, and no more, of flowers 
and moss, — 



26* 



306 



A SUMMER STORV. 



Its fringe of white lilies, along and 

across ; 
Its inwoven vines, and the feathery 

floss 
Of the bloom of the grass, make a 

sweet surprise, 
To kindle new light in an artist's eyes, 
While its odors of many a mingled 

scent 
Hang round the place like a gauzy 

tent. 

The clear pool deepens ; and at the 

hem 
Of Eosalie's dress drip water-pearls ; 
And every wave that round her 

whirls 
Leaps up to add another gem. 
And there the little fluttering maid 
Stands half in ecstasy, half afraid, 
Till stoops the youth, with enclosing 

arm , 
And lifts her from the watery harm ; 
Folds on his breast her budding grace, 
And feels this moment in his embrace 
Is clasped more beauty than ever 

smiled 
Before in the form of a twelve years' 

child. 
Her arm about his neck entwines, 
That like rose-tinted ivory shines. 
He looks up in her face of light, 
The flood of her curls half blinds his 

sight ; 
And, sportive as a chasing wind, 
Her fingers play with his locks behind. 

With a ripple and gurgle the waters 

flash 
Around his light, translucent 

knees ; 
He strides with as bold an air and 

dash 
As did Balboa in the western main, 
Bearing the imagined form of Spain 

To enthrone her on the seas. 
So, my beautiful boy, with triumphant 

smile, 
Enthrones his queen on the flowering 

isle, 
And then withdraws to a rock which 

stands 
A little above the flooded sands, 
And sits thereon with entranced look ; 
Then from his breast his companion- 
book 



With ecstatic hand he gayly draws. 
And, without further thought or 

pause, 
With charmed pencil begins to impart 
What he sees so well with eye and 

heart ; 
For his soul is full of the love of art, 
And his youthful hand has long been 

skilled 
In picturing what his fancy willed, 
Till far and near, with pride and joy, 
All speak of the marvellous village 

boy. 

From either slant bank overhead 
The great trees lean till their boughs 

are wed ; 
W x here the little birds chase in and 

out, 
Singing in their May-day rout. 
The kingfisher sails down, and there 
The long crane lights, and, with side- 
long stare, 
Seems to the beautiful lovers to say, 
"You're intruding, you know, but 

are welcome to stay." 
The drawing is finished, he strides to 

the isle, 
And lowly sits at the maiden's feet, 
And shows her the picture ; with blush 

and smile 
She praises the effort in accents 

sweet. 
Great praise, though spoke by a queen 

aloud, 
Ne'er made young Kaphael feel more 

proud. 

But look ! o'er the fall see the angler 
stand, 

Swinging his rod with skilful hand ; 

The fly at the end of his gossamer line 
Swims through the sun like a sum- 
mer moth, 

Till dropt with a careful precision fine, 
It touches the pool beyond the froth. 

A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the 
brook 

Darts from his covert and seizes the 
hook ; 

Swift spins the reel ; with easy slip 

The line pays out, and the rod like a 
whip, 

Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim, 

Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's 
brim, 



A SUMMER STORY. 



307 



Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and 

flings 
The spray from the flash of his finny 

wings, 
Then falls on his side, and, drunken 

with fright, 
Is towed to the shore like a stag- 
gering barge, 
Till beached at last on the sandy 

marge, 
"Where he dies with the hues of the 

morning light, 
"While his sides with a cluster of stars 

are bright. 
The angler in his basket lays 
The constellation, and goes his ways. 

Ah, my sweet Kalph and Eosalie, 
I would not mar your morning 
dream 

By hinting at sadder things that be ; 

Of that solemn Angler who mourn- 
fully 
"Wanders and waits beside Life's 
stream, 

There seeking ever the starriest prey 

To bear to his shadowy realms away. 



A SUMMER STORY. 

Mine ancient, cynical, bachelor 

friend, 

I know you sneer at this my song, 

At school-time loves, that only 

belong 

To "children," a thing you don't 

comprehend * 
And yet I know you've a great large 
heart, 
In common parlance, a very 

11 barn" ! 
I warn you (bards have the right 
to warn), 
Your crops are all garnered, and 

every part 
Is crowded with sultry sheaves of the 

past, 
And you have gathered vour best and 

* last. 
November is on you ; just bend down 

your ear 
Above that red "barn," and hear 
what you'll hear. 



'Tis the throb of life's tide, you will 

say, on the shore ; 
Nay, the thump of the flail on your 

heart's dusty floor. 

Can you not remember in days long 
gone, 
"When you were a school-boy, and 
knew not men, 
A beautiful face that upon you shone, 
As never a face has shone since 
then? 
How, like a highwayman, you lay in 
wait 
To steal one glance, or to catch one 
word ! 
How your heart, like a lark, went 
singing elate 
If you caught but a smile, or a syl- 
lable heard ? 
So sweet was her speech in its delicate 

closes, 
You thought she was made of music 
and roses ! 

So, I pray you, hold off, — if you can- 
not, in others, 
Re-live what you've lost in the May 
that has flown : 

"Who enjoys not their pleasures, he 
murderously smothers 
A thousand delights that might 
still be his own. 

So tend to your barn, and its sheaves, 
and its flail, 

And let the muse freely keep on with 
her tale. 

My beautiful Ralph and Rosalie, 
The years are reeling through space, 

you know, 
Three times you have seen the lilacs 
blow, 
Since that sweet brooklet revelry. 
Eighteen and fifteen are beautiful ages, 
The loveliest figures on Life's young 
pages ; 
But the volume holds threescore, 
or so, 
And every twelvemonth a leaf must 

be turned, 
And its mystical lesson sincerely 
learned. 
The round years roll ; they are 
worlds in themselves, 
And spin on their axis, every one, 



308 



A SUMMER STORY. 



And eternity is their central sun, 
While we, poor, miserable, helpless 

elves, 
Must whirl with their whirling night 

and day, 
Till our eyes are dim, and our hair is 

blown gray. 

Oh, my beloved and beautiful two, 
You know not what is in store for 
you ; 
It never troubles your innocent 
wits ; 
You only see what is bright and new, 
And glorify all with your heart's own 
dew ; 
From flower to flower your butterfly 
flits, 

Your great bee drops 
On the clover-tops, 
And drinks at his leisure the honey- 
dew. 

'Tis a breathless day ; the laden grove 
Is dreaming its summer dream of 

love ; 
A murmurous whisper, like a school, 
Is stealing along through its shadows 

cool ; 
And you thoughtfully wonder, so still 

is the air, 
"What it is that's astir in the tree-tops 

there. 
I have a belief, and no reasoning clod, 
"With his facts driven in and clinched 

with a nod, 
Shall argue me out of my poet faith — 
My heart holds fast to what Nature 

saith. 
I inherit some of that ancient creed, 
From which the world has long been 

freed, — 
Freed, and made better; but, in fell- 
ing the tree 
Of Error, such accident well might be; 
They may have crushed some flowers 

of truth, 
The fairest that blest the world in its 

youth. 
I believe that every created thing 
Hath a soul whic^i was born in Eter- 
nity's spring, 
Which still will live on to Eternity's 

close, 
Though the world end in fire, as 

prophecy shows ; 



So these great forest souls, holding 

council together, 
May converse as they please in the 

calmest of weather. 

In low, mellow tones they are breath- 
ing to-day, — 

I wish I could know what these wood- 
land bards say ; 

But I'm sure they are talking of him 
and of her 

Whose feet 'mid the leaves make a 
musical stir, 

Where they go hand and hand, with 
singing, and laughter, 

The red thrush before, and the gray 
squirrel after. 

Through paths where the whortle- 
berries grow, 
And where the woodland blossoms 

blow, 
They find the honeysuckle fruit 
Delicious, and only grown to suit 
The delicate taste of a maid like 

ours, 
Whose whole sweet life seems formed 

of flowers. 
Where the odorous mandrake lies 

around, 
Dragging the thin stalk to the ground, 
Not to be touched till a golden yellow 
Proclaims them mature, and pulpy, 

and mellow. 
They pass, till they gain a May-time 

knoll, 
Only wanting the flowery pole. 
Here the vine, in ambitious reach, 
Climbs to the top of the oak and beech, 
O'erflowing the trees, as fountains 

their urns, . 
Till the gazer scarce their support dis- 
cerns, 
And drops its cordage, in many a loop, 
Like ropes on the summer deck of a 
sloop. 

Between the trees one great vine 

clings, 
The very completest of woodland 

swings, 
And into the swing my Rosalie 
Is lifted, and seated, and there swings 

she, 
Pouring her full heart's rapturous 

glee; 



A SUMMER STORY. 



309 



While Ralph, with his soul brimming 
o'er with devotion, 

Keeps the vine with its beautiful 
freight in full motion, 

Till, seizing the swing, he runs dar- 
ingly under, 

And impels her so high that, in fear 
and in wonder, 

Her breathing is stayed, while her 
delicate tresses 

Are smoothed forth and back by the 
soft wind's caresses. 

My beautiful Ralph and Rosalie, 
The clusters are thick on life's 

young bough, 
And they on the red autumnal tree 
May ripen to purple and gold, and be 
All that they promise the future 

now ; 
But oftentimes o'er the full vine blows 
A poisonous breath, and no one knows 
From whence it comes or whither it 

goes; 
But the fairest clusters that crown the 

vine 
Are suddenly seen to wither and pine ; 
Or the grape to its central seed is cleft, 
Like a broken heart by hope bereft. 

But never let thoughts like these arise, 
Dear flower, to dim your violet eyes ; 
Let sadness come in its own time 

brought ; 
Let unfound sorrow still lie unsought. 
Then swing and sing, sweet maiden 

mine, 
A bluebird on a summer vine ; 
An embodied April, May, and June, 
Overflowing with spring-time tune ; 
A soul of blooms, where the song of 

birds 
Finds sweet translation in musical 

words. 

But, hark ! a shudder runs through 
the air, 

As if, within his desert lair, 

Some lion, shaking the sleep from his 
mane, 

Proclaimed himself lord of the bound- 
less plain, 

With savage growl, and hungry 
grumble ; 

But as it nears 'tis the rattle and 
rumble 



Of a chariot making its way toward 
Rome, 

Bearing victorious Csesar home. 

But see ! to the harnessed winds is 
given 

The tempest car, with its fiery levin, 

And these are the thunder-wheels of 
Heaven, 

Over the distant hill-tops driven ; 

Already the tremulous heads of the 
trees 

Are bowing before the courier breeze, 

But the insolent outriders soon rush 
past, 

Whirling and snapping the whips of 
the blast, 

Lashing and cutting the boughs, till 
the air 

Is alive with the foliage that flies in 
despair ; 

And suddenly frighting th,e harvest- 
ing world, 

The roaring cloud o'er the sun is 
hurled, 

With the speed of a death-laden war- 
rior barque, 

While the red lightnings flash from its 
ports through the dark. 

Near by there is a shelter of rocks, 
Where a shepherdess might watch 

her flocks, 
Secure as well from shower and sun, 
W^ith mosses and wild vines over- 
run. 
Scenting the rain ere the big drops 

splash, 
Listening to the rending crash, 
And blinded by the sulphurous 

flash, 
To this woodland cloister the lovers 

withdraw, 
With a mingled sense of pleasure and 

awe ; 
But not too soon, for a bolt of fire, 
By the storm-king sped, in reckless 

ire, 
From his red right hand in a blazing 

line, 
Shivers the oak with its loaded 

vine ; 
And they see, when the stun of the 

blow is past, 

The tree and the swing, 

Each a splintered thing, 

Over the knoll in confusion cast. 



310 



A SUMMER STORY. 



Now and then they hear the sound 

Of large drops on their sentinel round, 

For the main great army of the 
rain 

Has followed the stream up the dis- 
tant plain, 

To entrench its full force in the 
strength of the hills, 

The better to raid on the valleys and 
mills : 

And that splashy tread is of picket or 
scout, 

Which the storm, on his flank, has 
thrown warily out. 

The skirmishers now have passed 

from view ; 
Come, stroll to the headland, my 

heautiful two ; 
"What is the walk of a mile to you ? 
And see how the wind has worried 

the hay, 
Till it flung its insult of flashing spray 

Into the face of the blast, 
Half blinding it with brine as it 

passed. 
You are not one to he afraid, 
So fear not for your feet, sweet maid ; 
Only a little spot of wet 
Lies here and there like a violet. 

Along the path, under barberry 

bushes, 
And where your hand the low bough 

pushes 
Aside, perchance your golden curl 
May catch in its snare a random pearl, 
And the branch, if your touch be 

somewhat reckless, 
Rebounding, may fling you a delicate 

necklace. 
But this is all : to the headland hie, 
And watch the ships and the storm 

go by. 

They are out on their way, through 

bush and through bramble, 
Where the rabbits all year in security 

gambol ; 
There the snowy skirt of my Rosalie's 

dress 
Is caught in the barbarous vines' 

caress, 
Like Innocence, by the world beset, 
Till it struggles out of the briery 

net ; 



But the fingers of Ealph will dex- 
terous be 

In freeing her pathway ; and what 
cares he 

If the thorns do wound him ? he 
laughs at the pain, 

And brushes away the crimson stain ; 

For his hand, though no complaint is 
said, 

Like a tiger-lily, is speckled with red. 

But out of the thicket they laughing 
emerge, 

And stand at last on the ocean's verge. 

The rebel storm is subdued and bowed, 

And the seven-lined banner is hung 
on the cloud, 

And the air is flooded with purple 
and gold, 

Out of the royal sun's tent rolled. 

From billows that round the dark 
rocks whirl, 

Is thrown their spray of amber and 
pearl ; 

The dashing brine, and the new- 
mown hay, 

Send mingled odors around the bay. 

The flowers on shore, and the break- 
ers' white bloom, 

Have each their own beauty of hue 
and perfume. 

The hidden thrush fills the air with 
delight, 

While the grace of the sea-bird is 
flashed on the sight. 

In midst of the waves, like a swinging 
gull, 

To the billows a plaything, the fisher- 
man's hull 

Is lifted and dropt o'er the watery 
realm ; 

But the hand of the master is firm at 
the helm, 

While the larger barque speeds 
through the foam of the main, 

Like a cantering steed o'er a flowery 
plain. 

See yon great dusky steamer : it comes 
from the isles 
Where the sea-birds of Commerce, 

in cormorant flocks, 
Sail in and sail out round the fog- 
mantled rocks, 
Where the cloud seldom lifts, and the 
sun seldom smiles. 



A SUMMER STORY. 



311 



On its briny deck perchance is borne 
Great news, that by to-morrow's morn 
May wake our land, and let it know 
That family blood, though it may flow 
Thousands of miles away o'er the 

main, 
Is not perforce our natural foe, 

Taking delight in its kindred's pain ; 
Or it may tell of the hungry growl 
Of the jealous sea-lion ; well, let him 

howl. 
The bird that sits on our cliffs by the 

sea 
Is as wakeful and watchful a guardian 

as he; 
The time will come, when, through 

natural laws, 
The teeth will be lost from his leonine 

jaws ; 

Then the king in his lair, 
In the depth of his dotage, as well 

as despair, 
With his head dropped over his 

powerless paws, 
Will feel the hoof and hear the bray 
Of the smallest power he awes to-day. 

In that hour, forgetting injustice un- 
civil, 
His menacing stand, and his great 

exultation, 
When destruction was waving her 
torch o'er our nation ; 
Then we, ere he sinks to his ruinous 
level, 
Ere his great mart becomes the 

sacked Rome of the sea, • 
An embryo Nineveh yet to be, 
In magnanimous might may return 

good for evil, 
And drive the foul robbers, who now 

. are his slaves, 
From the island made dear by our 
ancestors' graves. 

Here, in the bay, lies a Union ship, 
Which the billow scarce causes to 

rise or to dip, 
So grandly she looms, lying under the 

fort, 
And so heavy the war-dog that snarls 

at each port. 
A thousand defenders like this, huge 

and grim, 
On the watery highway in triumph 

shall swim, 



'Twixt opposite poles, e'en from ice 

unto ice, 
And the world will take heed of their 

iron advice, 
And a continent yet, of Columbia's 

sons, 
Shall delight in the voice of those 

Union guns. 

My beautiful Ralph and Rosalie, 

We are not talking of love, you see. 

In the hour of ruder things, 

Sometimes Love must draw apart 
Into some recess of the heart, 

And fold himself in his own bright 
wings, 

Lest by a sudden whirl and gust 

In the highway of life the clinging 
dust 

Might soil those pinions' celestial 
hue, 

Which, tarnished, no power on earth 
can renew. 

But I hear my trusting young Rosalie 
say, 
With a shake of her curls, her pro- 
test sweet : 

She believes that Love, in the rough- 
est highway, 
Would sanctify all with his delicate 
feet ; 

That the weariest road where his 
wings unfold 

Is suddenly paved with amber and 
gold, 

And thickly strewn through the sul- 
triest hours 

With roses, and cooled with the dew 
of flowers ! 

A beautiful faith, gentle priestess, in 
sooth, 

To breathe at the garlanded altar of 
youth, 

From which flows the crystalline foun- 
tain of Truth ; 

And you, standing so near, 
May see and may hear 

What the time-veiled sense of the eye 
and the ear 

Of the world-weary pilgrim might 
fail to make clear. 

On this bowery headland an altar 

stands, 
Carved from the granite by invisible 

hands, 



312 



A SUMMER STORY. 



"When the world was young, 
And there the old loomsman, Time, 
has flung 

A mantle across, 
Made of the delicate many-hued moss, 
And here, with the rainbow arching 

above, 
Making a dome to their temple of 

Love ; 
With listening wild flowers, and with 
witnessing sun, 
While the sudden gush of the wood- 
land throng 
Rises like a hymeneal song ; 
And along the rocks the swift waves 

run, 
Like the hands of an organist, flash- 
ing free, 
With inspiration, from key to key, 
Sending jubilant melody up from the 
sea. 

Here sitting, the hearts of my beau- 
tiful two, 
Like long-watched flowers, that 
blossom at last, 
Aflush with beauty, and bright with 
dew, 
Swelling with all the dear growth 
of the past, 
With a glory no time can destroy or 
conceal, 
Bloom full in the light of each 

other's eyes ! 
Their two souls look their glad sur- 
prise, 
And the depth of their deathless love 

reveal ; 
And wonder smiles in the face of each, 
That what has been growing so long 

and well 
Should only this moment have 
broken the spell, 
And found expression in tremulous 
speech. 

Sweet words are said, and sweeter re- 
plies 
Come on the breath of responsive sighs, 
And melt through the tear, which the 

soft lash keeps, 
That earliest drop which, the full 

heart weeps, 
Born of the ecstasy which it feels 
When Love at his first confessional 
kneels. 



Oh, Love, let never foot more rude 

Than yours on this sainted place in- 
trude ; 

Let a hallowed glory forever shine 

Around this consecrated shrine; 

Breathe you a ban on the ambient 
air, 

To admit no wing but the singer's 
there ; 

And draw a circle around the spot, 
That nothing less pure than the 
violet, 

The sweet-brier, and the forget-me- 
not, 
Shall near this sacred shrine he set ; 

Let naught unholy be seen or heard 

At the altar where you have minis- 
tered. 



A SUMMER STORY. 

My beautiful Ralph and Rosalie, 

There is tumult in your leafy town ; 
A tumult, swinging like waves of the 
sea, 
For the swift winds of Rumor 

thereon have blown, 
And the spray of its startled wrath 
is thrown 
Back to the threatening thunder- 
wrack, 
Looming to southward, heavy and 
black. 

The very bells o'er this turbulent 

ocean 
Have caught the tempest's billowy 

motion, 
Like storm-bells rocking to and fro, 
Rung by the passionate waves below ; 
Even those in their Sabbath towers, 
Only meant for prayer-time hours, 
Or bridal scenes, or measured calls 
To slow and solemn funerals, 
With unrestrained and fiery clangor 
Ring out their fierce indignant anger, 
As might some priest, who long had 

given 
The guiding words that lead to 

Heaven, 
Proclaim, with his denouncing 

tongue, 
The fiercest sentence ever flung 



A SUMMER STORY. 



313 



At the iconoclastic band ; 
Should he behold the fiendish frown, 
And see the demon-lighted eye, 
And hear the desecrating cry 
Of one who strove, with lifted 
hand, 
To strike his dearest image down. 

Speak out, wild bells, with swifter 
swing ! 

Ye patriot hearts of iron mould, 

Ye men, whom danger never awed ; 
Whose courage hath the old-time ring, 
This is no hour to stand and hark ! 

The black, unnatural deed is done ; 
The traitor, springing from the dark, 

Would tear the stars from yonder 
fold, 
And mar the flag your fathers won ! 

The braggart, courting new dis- 
grace, 

Has flung his glove into the face — 
The sainted face — of Washington. 

Let every tongue in anger swing 

The anathematizing word abroad, 
Even though revenge should fiercely 
wing 
The fiery arrows of your wrath, 
To stay the traitor in his path : 
The angel Freedom, sitting near to 
God, 
Whose tearful eyes her anxious soul 

betray, 
Will look into His face and plead the 
sin away. 

The town is full of fifes and drums ; 

From every home a patriot comes ; 

You can hear them shouting on every 
hill, 

Like spring-time brooks, with resist- 
less will, 

Swelling the sea on Freedom's coast, 

To o'erthrow and drown the insolent 
host. 

The yeoman, who knows to hew and 

delve, 
Driving the axe or the spade to its 

helve, 
Now bears the gun that his father 

bore 
By the side of Scott in the " War of 

Twelve;" 
Or the glorious sword his grandsire 

wore : 



The flash of whose good steel still 

predicts 
Defeat to the foe, as in " seventy-six." 
All ranks of life, the desk and plough, 
Send out their teeming legions now. 

Those patriots old, when their wars 

were done, 
And they hung on the wall the sword 

and gun, 
Ne'er dreamed what future treasonous 
breath, 
Breathed from the hot plains of the 

South, 
Out of the stolen cannon's mouth, 
Threat'ning Freedom with sudden 

death, 
Should call those sacred weapons forth 
From the cottage wall, 
Or ancestral hall, 
To fields that fester beneath the sun, 
In defence of Liberty and the North, — 
The North and Liberty being one. 

On every homestead, on every church, 
Our eagle banner is seen to perch, 
Where it shines like Heaven's ap- 
proving mark 
A covenant over our Union ark. 

My beautiful Ralph and Bosalie, 
There's a glorious sight for you to see ; 
And could I picture the vision of 
gold, 
The wondrous pile, so high and broad, 
Aflush with the eternal light of God, 
And full of His harmonies mani- 
fold— 
Your faces, illumined, would glow 
and shine 
Like those of the souls who have 

just had birth, 
Out of the shadowy vale of earth, 
When, first they see the celestial 
shrine. 

I behold an organ, tall and vast, 
The labor of all the ages past, 
Nor yet complete, but the golden ore 
Is being wrought for one note more. 
Its six-and-thirty great golden pipes 
Are draped about with stars and 

stripes, 
And on its tallest pinnacle height 
Our guardian eagle sits throned in 

light. 



314 A SUMMER STORY. 


Its fluted form o'ertops the cloud ; 


And thrill through the cities, and 


It covers the land between the seas ; 


startle the farms, 


"While an angel, greater than 


Till the North is all lit with the flash- 


prophet e'er saw, 


ing of arms. 


Flashes his hands along* the keys, 


And still, as he plays, the other re- 


Holding the world with his sym- 


coils, 


phonies, 


Relinquishing keys that his touching 


A wonderful music, deep and loud, 


but spoils, 


Filling the nations with marvel- 


Till on his last octaves, with rage and 


ling awe. 


affright, 




He franticly strikes a wild maniac 


But see, the angel recoils apace, 


blow, 


With wonder and wrath on his 


Then flies, with a shriek, to his own 


startled face, 


native night, 


For a fiend, with a fierce and mur- 


The realm of the king of all traitors 


derous mien, 


below. 


Has stolen suddenly in unseen, 




And, with a mingled rage and 


Anew the great Union organ awakes, 


glee, 


And the grand anthem swings from 


Is dashing his madness from key to 


the Gulf to the Lakes, 


key, 


Announcing the stigma that darkened 


Making horrible discord down the 


our land 


bass ; 


Is swept at the waving of Liberty's 


And as from the jargon a maniac 


hand. 


mutters, 


Still, still may that music go widely 


May be gathered some clue to his 


abroad, 


fell disease, 


Proclaiming our realm is the chosen 


Thus, from the jar of those tortured 


of God. 


keys. 




I catch the meaning he wildly ut- 


The world is all joy, my Rosalie, 


ters : — 


And yet one pleasure remains for 


"Down, down with the pile the pa- 


me : — 
In this cathedral land of ours, 


triots built, 


"Whose aisles are strewn with Union 


That stands a rebuke to our Southern 


flowers, 


guilt I 


The glorious red, and white, and 


Down, down, though humanity 


blue, 


quakes at the jar, 


"While that wonderful organ, 


Shuddering to see our sword red to 


from lofty towers, 


the hilt, 


Is pouring its jubilant notes anew, 


"While a race, half our own, drags 


Come, kneel at the altar, and over 


our Juggernaut car !" 


you 




And your soldier, with his empty 


But the angel, for whom the great 


sleeve, 


organ was made, 


And his crutch, which makes you 


"With a glorious anger, that cannot be 


proud, not grieve, 


stayed, 


The sounds shall fall in hymeneal 


Strikes the clear silver notes of the 


showers, 


octaves above, 


Blessing the joining of heart and 


That leap to the mountains, and pierce 


hand, 


to the grove, 


In a land united at God's command. 



THE BLESSED DEAD. 315 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE BLESSED DEAD. 


| And ye, who in the harvest of your 




years 


Oh, happy childhood ! tender buds 


AYere stricken when the sun was 


of spring 


in mid-air, 


Touched in the May-time by a wan- 


And left the earth bedewed at noon 


dering frost ; 


with tears, — 


Ye have escaped the summer's sultry 


Ye have known all of life that is 


wing : 


most fair, 


No drought hath parched you, and 


The laugh of April, and the summer 


no wind hath tossed, 


bloom. 


Shaking the pearls of morning from 


Ye wMth the orange-blossoms in 


your breast : 


your hair, 


Ye have been gathered ere your 


TYho sleep in bridal chambers of the 


sweets were lost, 


tomb ; 


Ere winged passions stole into your 


Or ye, who with the sickle in the 


rest 


hand 


To rob the heart of all its dewy store. 


Have bowed amid the sheaves the 


Xow in the endless May-time over- 


manly head, 


head, 


And left the toil unto a mournful 


In starry gardens of the azure 


band, — 


' shore, 


Ye all are numbered in yon resting 


Ye bloom in light, and are for ever- 


land, 


more 


The blessed dead. 


The blessed dead. 




Ye youths and maidens, dear to Joy 


And ve, who like the stately upland 


and Love. 


oak 


But fallen midway between morn 


Breasted the full allotted storms of 


and noon, — 


time, 


Or bird-like flown, as if some longing 


And took new 7 strength from every 


dove 


gusty stroke, — 


Should seek a better clime while yet 


And ye, who like a vine long taught 


'tis June, 


to climb 


Leaving our fields forlorn ! Oh, happy 


And weigh its native branches with 


flight ! 


ripe fruit, — 


Gone while your hearts are full of 


Much have ye suffered 'neath the 


summer tune 


frosty rime 


And ignorant of the autumnal 


"Which autumn brings, and winter's 


blight,— 


loud dispute ! 


Ere yet a leaf hath withered on 


But now, transplanted in the fields 


the bough 


afar, 


Or innocent rose hath drooped its 


Your age is like a withered foliage 


dying head ; 


shed, — 


Gone with the virgin lilies on your 


And where Youth's fountain spar- 


brow, 


kles like a star, 


Ye, singing in immortal youth, are 


This have ye learned, they only 


now 


live who are 


The blessed dead. i 


The blessed dead. 



316 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE PHANTOM LEADEKS. 

By starlight they rode in their speed 

and their might, 
A warrior-host sweeping down 

through the night, — 
An army of spectres, they sped on the 

wind, 
"With swords piercing front and 

plumes streaming behind ; 
On the highways of air they were 

led as by Mars, 
While their steeds shod with thunder 

seemed trampling the stars ! 
Like a fleet in a gale, they careered 

through the night, 
And the path where they passed 

flashed with phosphorous light. 



In the front galloped Brutus, a foe to 

all peace, 
His blade gleaming red with the blood 

of Lucrece ; 
And, turning toward Borne, bent his 

way down the heaven, 
Bepeating the oath which of old he 

had given. 
" These modern Tarquins must fall 1" 

was his cry ; 
" By the blade of their own bloody 

guilt they shall die !" 
And, strange though it be, there Mo- 
hammed was seen, 
His Arab's mane sweeping his mantle 

of green, 
And the watchwords engraved on his 

drawn scimitar 
Were " Allah, il Allah !" each letter 

a star. 
Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden was 

there, 
As at Liitzen he rode with his battle- 
blade bare. 
And, like their own turbulent torrents 

let loose 
By a storm in the Highlands, sped 

Wallace and Bruce. 
Sobieski, the Pole, gave his charger 

the rein, 
Every stroke of whose hoof broke a 

fetter in twain. 
There was Olaf of Norway, whose 

mandate and sword 
The heathen struck down in the name 

of the Lord. 



There sped fiery Tell with his cross- 
bow and "dart, 
The barb glowing crimson from Gess- 

ler's proud heart. 
And close by his side, the beloved of 

his peers, 
Bold Winkelried rode with his arms 

full of spears, 
The same old self-sacrifice lighting 

his eye, 
And " Make way for Liberty !" still 

was his cry. 
There was Luther, no braver e'er rode 

to the field, 
And the word of the Lord was his 

buckler and shield, 
While the weapon he grasped was the 

same he had sped 
InamomentofangeratLucifer'shead. 
There was Cromwell, that monarch 

who never wore crown, 
With his Bible and sword and his 

Puritan frown, 
And with him Charles-Albert, the 

Piedmontese star, 
As he rode ere betrayed on the field 

of Novarre. 
There, with garments still red from 

that last fatal day, 
The ghost of Bozzaris sped fierce for 

the fray ; 
And close by his side, with an 'eye 

full of fire, 
Bode Byron, still grasping his sword 

and his lyre, 
And the war-kindling numbers which 

fell from his tongue 
Like the notes of a wild battle-clarion 

were flung ! 
And just in advance galloped Korner 

and Burns, 
L T nsheathing the war-song and fal- 
chion by turns ! 
There, gazing and listening, my spirit 

entranced 
Leaped for joy as these poets for 

Freedom advanced ; 
And I felt the warm thought through 

my bosom descend, 
That the bard to be true must be 

Liberty's friend ! 

Then came a dim host to my vision 

unknown, 
Like those lights which astronomers 

number alone ; 



THE STAYED CURSE. 



317 



But their voice still made" clear what Their barbarous feet know no re- 

the eye could not see, straint ; 

Crying. " Down with the tyrant, ; They vent their rage before our 

wherever he be !" eyes : 

The shrine that held our dearest saint 
But why swept these phantoms ? A ruined heap before us lies. 

Whence rode thev. and where? 
What occasion had summoned these The temples by our young hearts 



reared , 

Their ruffian malice batters down ; 
Ambition's altars, unrevered, 

With domes of Hope, lie over- 
thrown. 



allies of air ? 
I looked, and beheld the swift spread 

of the blaze 
Which dazzled the stars with the 

pulse of its rays, 
As if through the darkness the light- 
ning had played, 
And in midst of its splendor been 

suddenly stayed : 
There I read the great words spread 

like fiery wings 
Where "weighed and found wanting" 

confronted the kings ! 
And this army of spectres, led on by 

that light. 
Like a cloud on a hurricane swept 

through the night ; 
And this was their cry coming down And thou, fair maid, so young and 

on the gale, blest ! 

" The modern Belshazzars are weighed \ When impious years shall touch 



And Friendship's wayside shrines and 

towers 

Too oft are shattered as they pass : 

Oft Love, a statue wreathed with 

flowers, 

Lies at their feet a crumbled mass. 

But like these pure Etruscan skies, 
Unsullied by the Goth^s control, 

One fane the vandal Time defies. — 
The dome of sunshine in the soul ! 



in the scale !' 



A BIRTHDAY THOUGHT IN 
ITALY. 

INSCRIBED TO MISS S. R. B. 

As once the trembling Lombard saw 

The swift barbarians* line of spears 

Wind down the Alps, thus here in 

awe 

I watch the approaching line of 

years. 

They come, the Goth and Vandal 
band-. 
With savage tread and look un- 
couth : 



thy brow, 
Still hold this sunshine in thy breast, 
And be as beautiful as now. 
Bagni di Lccca, August 16, 1855. 

THE STAYED CURSE. 

in un- 



With face half hidden 

gathered hair, 
Which fell like sunshine o'er her 

shoulders bare. 
She leaned her cheek against her 

chamber wall. 
As if to note when some far voice 

should call. 
Her weary soul stood at its prison 

bars. 
With spear and mace and murderous Fainting to hear a summons from the 



brand: 
They file toward the plains of 

youth. 

Down into life's Etrurian vale-. 

O'er green campagnas broad and 
fair. 
They sweep like bitter Norland gales, 

And friirht the calm Italian air. 



stars . 

For life was now a midnight w r ilder- 
ness, 

Wherein none whispered peace to her 
distress, 

Save One, whose voice, of love and 
pity blended, 

'Mid her loud grief was not yet com- 
prehended. 



27^ 



318 



MISCELLA NEO US. 



She heard alone the vulture sailing 

by, 

Led by the foulest birds of calumny ; 

Felt the cold serpents crawl against 
her feet, 

And saw the gaunt wolves steal to her 
retreat. 

The wide world scowled and reddened 
at her shame, 

Scorching her soul with horror ; and 
her name 

Was struck, as with the violent hand 
of rage, 

With one huge blot from off the 
social page. 

What wonder that the soul thus 
rudely wrung 

Should shape such words as half ap- 
palled the tongue ! 

Words like fierce arrows for the faith- 
less breast 

Where love had dreamed with too 
confiding rest ; 

Shafts which, once sped at random 
from the lips, 

Some friendly fiend must guide to 
their eclipse 

In the dark heart, where, on his star- 
less throne, 

Deception sat, and, smiling, reigned 
alone ! 



Thus had she nursed her grief for 
many days, 
And thus the curse was struggling 
from her breast, 
When, as the midnight's solemn 
sentry bell 
Struck vaguely through her woe- 
engendered haze, 
Announcing, as it were, the mourn- 
ful guest, 
She heard the sudden close of 
wings which fell, 
Together with the rustling sound of 

sighs ; 
And presently, uplifting her blank 
eyes, 
Beheld a dull and ashen form of 
woe 
Stand looking its great melan- 
choly there, 
As if long years of under-world 
despair 



j Had fanned him with the hottest airs 

that blow 
Athwart the fierce Sahara fields 

below ! 
The wings were leaden-hued and ruf- 
fled all, 
As if long beaten 'gainst some stormy 

wall, 
Or blown contrary by belligerent 

gusts, 
Then trailed for ages through the 

cinder dusts 
On plains adjacent, where the Stygian 

pours, 
Hissing forever on volcanic shores I 
She looked, and on her lips the curse 

was stayed ! 
Thrice all the vengeance which her 

soul had planned 
Burned on the forehead of the fallen 

shade ! 
Her purpose dropt — as from the 

archer's hand 
Might fall the arrow if he saw the foe 
Struck by the lightning's swift and 

surer blow ! 
The curse was stayed — she looked to 

heaven and sighed, 
"Forgive! forgive!" and in her 

prayer she died ! 



TWENTY-ONE. 

SOME BIRTHDAY LINES TO J. R. T. 

Ear within the orient azure, 
In the purple and the dew, 

Lies the flowery land of pleasure 
Which your early childhood knew. 

In its dim and blue existence 
There it lies, a dewy space, 

In the bright forbidden distance 
Memory only can retrace. 

After this the fancy wanders 

Over varied field and hill, 
Where the swelling stream meanders 

And forgets it was a rill. 

Many a flower with odors baneful 
Blooms enticingly thereby, 

To whose influence, subtle, painful, 
Later years shall testify. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 



319 



In Youth's lovely, dangerous valley, 
E'en the best-directed feet 

Oft may turn to stray and dally 
'Mid the bowers that chill and cheat. 

But anon the flowers grow scanter 
And to rougher pastures yield, 

"Where tne ploughman and the planter 
Must prepare the harvest-Held. 

On that boundary you are standing, 
'Twixt the blossoms and the clods, 

To begin on this stern landing 

The great strife gainst fearful odds. 

Where you strolled the sunny 
meadows, 
You must brave the rocks and 
storms ; 
Where you took alarm at shadows, 
You must combat solid forms. 

Hills of snow and valleys torrid 
Lie beyond the boundary vast, 

Where fond Life with anxious fore- 
head 
Keads the future from the past. 

Huge and rough as thunder-smitten, 
Rise the barriers of the gate, 

With one sentence overwritten, — 
Simple letters full of fate. 

On the arch through which you're 
speeding 

There those two forbidding words 
Still shall flame, as over Eden 

Blazed the red exiling swords. 

A lost realm recovered never — 
With receding speed increased, 

Burred and branded there forever 
It shall glimmer in the east. 

Youth is gone — a vanished glory — 
And, with stern and earnest view, 

Manhood needs take up the story, 
And with valor bear it through. 

All the world lies wide before you, 
Where to choose the wrong or right ; 

And no future shall restore you 
What you seize not now with might. 

Let each act be the sure token 
Of the nobler life ahead : — 

Let each thought in truth be spoken, 
Though the utterance strike you 
dead. 



Spurn the small enticing by-way 
Where Temptation sits apart: 

Boldly tread the open highway 
Leading to the golden mart. 

Though the world smile on you 
blandly, 

Let your friends be choice and few ; 
Choose your course, pursue it grandly, 

And achieve what you pursue ! 



. BEATRICE. 

Though others know thee by a fonder 
name, 
I. in my heart, have christened thee 

anew ; 
And though thy beauty, in its na- 
tive hue 

(Shedding the radiance of whence it 
came), 

May not bequeath to language its 
high claim, — 
Thy smiling presence, like an an- 
gel's wing, 

Fans all my soul of poesy to flame, — 
Till, even in remembering, I must 
sing. 

Such led the grand old Tuscan's long- 
ing eyes 

Through all the crystal rounds of 
Paradise ; 
And, in my spirit's farthest jour- 
neying, 

Thy smile of courage leads me up the 
skies, 

Through realms of song, of beauty, 
and of bliss, — 

And therefore have I named thee 
Beatrice I 



HERO AND LEANDER. 

Long had they dwelt within one 
breathless cell, 
Two souls, by some mad Sycorax 
confined ; 
But, oh ! the unmeant mercy of that 
spell 
Which turned those arms to marble, 
while entwined 



320 MISCELLANEOUS. 


In all the passionate woe of tender- 


The soul of purity, around, above, 


ness, 


Hung in the tremulous air like 


And to the unknown depths of 


heaven's own dove ; 


earth consigned 


And Fame pronounced the name 


These radiant forms of Beauty's rare 


of him who gave 


excess, 


A marble immortality to Love I 


This monument of Love's own love- 




liness ! 






WINTER. 


Unchronicled, the centuries rolled 




on. 


Lo, "Winter comes, and all his heralds 


And groves grew ancient on the 


blow 


prison-hill ; 


Their gusty trumpets, and his tents 


And men forgot their parent tongues 


of snow 


anon, 


Usurp the fields from whence sad 


And spoke a different language, as 


Autumn flies, — 


a rill 


Autumn, that finds a southern clime 


"Wearing another channel from its 


or dies. 


source, 


The streams are dumb with woe ; the 


Makes a new song accordant with its 


forest grieves, 


course. 


Wailing the loss of all its summer 


But suddenly the unexpectant sun 


leaves : 


Beheld the swarthy laborers employ 


As some fond Rachel on her childless 


Upon that hill their rude exhuming 


breast 


art, 


Clasps her thin hands where once her 


Like shadowy hopes at some dull, an- 


young were prest 


cient heart 


Then flings her empty arms into the 


To free the spirit of long-buried 


air, 


j°y- 


And swells the gale with her con- 


And now they grappled with the stub- 


vulsed despair 1 


horn rocks, 




Breaking the antique seals which 




time had set 


THE BLIGHTED FLOWER. 


Upon the earth's deep treasury, that 




locks 


W^hy, gentle lady, why complain 


"Within its inmost wards such marts 


At Scandal's ever-flying breath ? 


as yet 


'Gainst Virtue's cheek it blows in vain, 


The busy masons of the poet's brain 


And (.hereon breathes itself to death. 


Have builded not. Anon the toil- 




ing ox 


The flower beneath the passing rain, 


Dragged the white quarry to the 


Untouched of canker or of blight, 


peopled plain. 


Bows patiently, to rise again 


And Beauty's soul lay sepulchred 


With sweeter breath and fresher 


unknown ! 


light. 


The crowd discerned it not, till there 




came one 


But if the worm be hid beneath, 


"Who heard the passionate breathings 


Or haply if the hot simoom, 


in the stone, 


Like some unlawful lover's breath, 


The wordless music of Love's over- 


Hath wooed that blossom to its 


flow ; 


doom, — 


"Who heard and pitied, and, like 




Prospero, 


Then, woe is me, how poor and frail 


Released the spirits from their liv- 


Is Beauty in her fairest form ! 


ing grave ; 
And when the breathless world beheld 


Her brightness cannot stay the gale, 
Her perfume cannot charm the 


them — lo ! 


storm. 



THE DEATH OF 


THE VETERAN. 321 


But when the searching wind comes 


From hill to hill the "good news" 


by, 


ran 


And shakes each "blossom by the 


As swift as signal fires ; 


stalk, 


From shore to sea, from gulf to land, 


The tainted leaves asunder fly, 


And flashed along the wires : 


To wither down the garden walk ; — 






And presently from wharf to wharf 


And ere one heated noon has sped, 


The cannons made reply, 


They crisp and curl and pass from 


And in the city's crowded streets 


sight, 


Was heard the newsman's cry. 


Or crumble 'neath some careless tread 




As if they never had been bright. 


Bright grew the matron's face when I 




The victory began ; 




Pale waxed the young wife's cheek 




when she 




Heard who had led the van ; 


THE DEATH OF THE VET- 




ERAN. 


And, struggling with the mists of 
age 
Which veiled his eye and ear, 


AN INCIDENT DURING THE MEXICAN 


WAR. 


The grandsire raised his palsied hand 




And feebly strove to hear. 


INSCRIBED TO MAJOR ANDERSON, OF 


THE U. S. ARMY. 


And when I read the story, how 




Amid the flying balls 


Since last we met, a throng has 


The brave lieutenant bore the flag 


joined 


And scaled the shattered walls, 


The army of the years, 




Trampling to dust our summer 


The matron and the young wife stood 


flowers, 


Too terrified for tears, 


Like conquering cavaliers. 


While flamed the old man's cheek 


Since last we met ! — In those few 


with red 


words 


It had not known for years. 


There is a mournful beat, 




Like throbbing of a muffled drum, 


But when I read, that as the flag 


Or tread of funeral feet. 


In triumph o'er him flew, 


Since then, in war's high festival 


How twenty bullets hewed his breast 


You've waved the clashing 


And cleaved it through and 


sword, — 


through, — 


"While I have been a saddened guest 




At Life's promiscuous board. 


The mother heaved a short, deep 


Since then, the } r oung with mimic 


groan, 


arms 


And sunk into her chair; 


Have grown to armed men ; 


The wife fell on the matron's breast, 


And they may wear the veteran's 
haii- 
Before we meet again : — 


And swooned in her despair. 


And like a wounded, dying stag, 


Or though , ere that, our mighty Chief 


Lodged in some old retreat, 


Should grant our last release, 


That hears the still approaching 


And Deatli conduct us to the camp, 


hounds 


The far white camp of Peace, — 


And staggers to his feet, — 


Yet here, in memory of those days, 




Still cherished, though longspent, 


The Veteran struggled from his chair 


I wake the martial harp before 


And raised himself upright, — 


The doorway of your tent. 


His eye a moment kindled with 


f 


Its long-forgotten light; — 
; f 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



So firm he strode across the room, 

So martial was his air, 
You scarce had guessed that ninety 
years 

Had whitened through his hair : — 

Then from the wainscot took his 
sword, 

Where it had hung so long, 
Memorial of many a field, 

The weak against the strong, — 

Of fields where Justice armed the 
few 

With consecrated brands, 
And lodged a nation's destiny 

In their devoted hands : — 

And, gazing on the blade, he said, 
" Thou art as keen and bright 

As when in those old tr\-ing times 
We battled for the right : 

" As when we wintered in the snow 

Within the frozen gorge, 
And from our starving ranks still 
hurled 

Defiance at King George : 

"As when beside the Brandywine 
We fought the whole day through, 

Till fields had changed their mantle 
And the river changed its hue : 

" As when 'mid grinding gulfs of ice, 

Upon a Christmas night, 
We crossed the roaring Delaware 

And put the foe to flight ! 

" It may be this old arm of mine 

Is not as steady now 
As when it drew against Burgoyne, 

Or cleaved the ranks of Howe ; 

" The hand may tremble on the hilt, 
The heart within is strong ; 

And God who strengthened once the 
right 
Will not uphold the wrong. 

" What ! have they ta'en the last sup- 
port 

That propped my honored wall ? 
Shall the name become tradition 

And the stately roof-tree fall ? 



"Was't not enough that he who, 
through 

The woods and tangled brakes, 
Spread terror o'er the savage, from 

The Gulf unto the Lakes ; 

"And who beside the bloody Thames 
Left death where'er he sped. 

Till the fate which he was hurling 
round 
Recoiled upon his head, — 

"Was't not enough? Speak thou, 
my friend : 

Old comrade, thou wert there, — 
Who in the days aforetime drove 

The Lion to his lair ; 

" Twice drove him from our shore, 
and chased 

The red wolf to his den ! 
Was't not enough, but must I hear 

The death-note sound again ? 

" And has our banner waved abroad, 
The martial trumpet pealed, 

And foemen bristled on the plain, 
And we not in the field ? 

" Old sword, in this our winter, 
Shall they call to us in vain, 

Who reaped the crimson harvest 
With a Washington and Wayne? 

" No ! come, my trusty champion, 
Till the field be cleared and won, 

And the foe be left in prostrate 
ranks 
To bleach beneath the sun ! 

"Ho! now is't blood which stains 
you, 

Or the shameful blush of rust ? 
Is it age which dims my vision, 

Or the flying smoke and dust ? 

"Is't the beating of my heart I hear, 

Or calling drum at hand? 
Or grows my step unsteady, 

Or does battle shake the land ? 

" The drums grow loud and louder, 
With the bugle's dreadful note ; 

The smoke-wreaths thicken round 
me, 
And the dust is in my throat ! 



A PLEA FOR THE HOMELESS. 



323 



" Hark, hark ! I hear the order, and 
It bids me mount the wall ; 

I know the General's voice ! — and I 
Obey him though I fall ! 

" Yes, I will plant my country's flag 

Upon the topmost stone ; 
For when her fate demands it, 

What should I care for my own ? 

" Now how the loud walls totter, 
Thicker, — darker grows the 
smoke, — 

And all the air is turned to dust, — 
I stumble, and I choke ! 

II One solid thrust to plant the staff, — 
There ! — let the eagle soar !" 

He cried, and, reeling, clasped his 
breast, — 
He fell — and breathed no more ! 



EVENING IN WINTER. 

Robed like an abbess 

The snowy earth lies, 
While the red sundown 

Fades out of the skies. 
Up walks the evening, 

Veiled like a nun, 
Telling her starry beads 

One by one. 

Where like the billows 

The shadowy hills lie, 
Like a mast the great pine swings 

Against the bright sky. 
Down in the valley 

The distant lights quiver, 
Gilding the hard-frozen 

Face of the river. 

When o'er the hill-tops 

The moon pours her ray, 
Like shadows the skaters 

Skirr wildly away ; 
Whirling and gliding, 

Like summer-clouds fleet, 
They flash the white lightning 

From glittering feet. 

The icicles hang 

On the front of the falls, 
Like mute horns of silver 

On shadowy walls ; 



Horns that the wild huntsman 

Spring shall awake, 
Down flinging the loud blast 

Toward river and lake ! 



A PLEA FOR THE HOMELESS. 

A cry goes up amidst a prosperous 
nation, 
And Hunger begs within a plenteous 
land ! 
Have ye not heard the voice of Deso- 
lation ? 
Have ye not seen the stretched and 
famished hand ? 
Have ye not felt the solemn obligation 
To rise, and straightway answer the 
demand? 

O happy mothers, in your homes pro- 
tected, 
Whose little ones may never ask 
for alms, 
That voice is Childhood's ! starving 
and neglected 
Pale Infancy implores with empty 
palms, — 
The sad soul sitting in its eyes dejected, 
No voice elates, no smile of pity 
calms. 

Let those dear looks, so full of April 
splendor, 
Those dimpled hands you clasp 
within your own, 
That voice you love so, plead with 
accents tender 
For those who weep unguarded and 
alone, 
For those dull eyes, those hands so 
weak and slender. 
Those pallid lips, whose mirth is 
but a moan ! 

Sweet plants there are which bloom 
in sultry places, 
By rude feet trampled in their early 
hour, 
Which, when transplanted, are so full 
of graces, 
They lend a charm to Flora's fairest 
bower : 
O ye who pass, look down into their 
faces, 
Displace the dust, and recognize 
the flower ! 



324 MISCELLA NEO VS. 


Lo, the example for our guidance 


Downward, forever downward, 


given, — 


Behind Earth's dusky shore 


In sacred light our duty stands re- 


They passed into the unknown night, 


vealed ! 


They passed, and were no more. 


For One there was, who, in His great 




love, even 


No more ! Oh, say not so ! 


Noted the smallest lilies of the 


And downward is not just; 


field, 


For the sight is weak and the sense is 


And, blessing children, said, " Of such 


dim 


is heaven !" 


That looks through heated dust. 


His " Suffer them to come," stands 




unrepealed ! 


The stars and the mailed moon, 




Though they seem to fall and die, 


ye whose hearts, amid the worldly 


Still sweep with their embattled lines 


noises, 


An endless reach of sky. 


No cares can harden, and no self 




benumb, 


And though the hills of Death 


Whose ears are open to these orphan 


May hide the bright array, 


voices, 


The marshalled brotherhood of souls 


"Whose answering soul no avarice 


Still keeps its upward way. 


makes dumb, 




The great Recorder o'er your names 


Upward, forever upward, 


rejoices, 


I see their march sublime, 


For ye have truly suffered them to 


And hear the glorious music 


come ! 


Of the conquerors of Time. 




And long let me remember 




That the palest, fainting one 




May to diviner vision be 


THE CELESTIAL ARMY. 


A bright and blazing sun. 


1 stood by the open casement 




And looked upon the night, 




And saw the westward-going stars 




Pass slowly out of sight. 


CHURCH'S "HEART OF THE 




ANDES." 


Slowly the bright procession 




Went down the gleaming arch, 


Traverse the oceans, seek for un- 


And my soul discerned the music 


known strands ; 


Of their long triumphal march ; 


With great explorers ride through 




marvellous lands ; 


Till the great celestial army, 


Walk with the poet where his king- 


Stretching far beyond the poles, 


dom lies, — 


Became the eternal symbol 


A realm of light beneath enchanted 


Of the mighty march of souls. 


skies ; 




Between bright islands sail the spicy 


Onward, forever onward, 


seas, 


Red Mars led down his clan ; 


Beside the mighty -hearted Genoese ; 


And the Moon, like a mailed maiden, 


Conquer with Cortes the barbaric 


Was riding in the van. 


states, 




And pass through El Dorado's golden 


And some were bright in beauty, 


gates ; 


And some were faint and small, 


Shout with the great Balboa and his 


But these might be in their great 


crew, 


height 


W T hat time a new sea sparkles into 


The noblest of them all. 


view ; 



THE REAPER'S DREAM. 



325 



"With Ponce de Leon seek the fabled 

stream 
Through flowery valleys brighter than 

his dream ; 
But never any sight of new-found 

land 
Shall equal this, where we entranced 

stand, 
"With dewy eyes and overflowing 

heart, 
Gazing from the exalted hill of Art ! 

This is not sorrowing Italy, nor these 

The storied windings of the Pyrenees, 

Nor are yon high and trackless realms 
of snow 

The over-travelled Alps, the guide- 
man's show ! 

But these, in depth of equatorial 
green, 

Are the fresh Cordilleras, where be- 
tween 

"Wander bewildering rivers, dancing 
down 

Their rocky terraces of golden brown, 

Clapping their watery hands. About 
the falls 

The trees are wreathed like happy 
bacchanals. 

Here blooms a world that fears nor 
cold nor drouth, 

The lavish luxury of the teeming 
South, 

The carnival of summer, far and near, 

In lands where summer lords it all the 
year ; 

And over all, his Andean front aglow, 

Great Chimborazo sits, his throne of 
snow ! 



THE REAPER'S DREAM. 

The road was lone; the grass was 

dank 
With night-dews on the briery bank 
"Whereon a weary reaper sank. 
His garb was old; his visage tanned; 
The rusty sickle in his hand 
Could find no work in all the land. 

He saw the evening's chilly star 

Above his native vale afar; 

A moment on the horizon's bar 



j It hung, then sank, as with a sigh ; 
| And there the crescent moon went by, 
[ An empty sickle down the sky. 

j To soothe his pain, Sleep's tender 

palm 
Laid on his brow its touch of balm ; 
His brain received the slumb'rous 

calm ; 
And soon that angel without name, 
Her robe a dream, her face the same, 
The giver of sweet visions, came. 

She touched his eyes ; no longer 

sealed, 
They saw a troop of reapers wield 
Their swift blades in a ripened Held. 
At each thrust of their snowy sleeves 
A thrill ran through the future 

sheaves, 
Rustling like rain on forest leaves. 

, They were not brawny men who 
bowed, 
"With harvest-voices rough and loud, 
But spirits, moving as a cloud. 

i Like little lightnings in their hold, 

j The silver sickles manifold 

: Slid musically through the gold. 

Oh, bid the morning stars combine 
To match the chorus clear and fine 

; That rippled lightly down the line ; 

'■ A cadence of celestial rhyme, 
The language of that cloudless clime, 
To which their shining hands kept 
time ! 

Behind them lay the gleaming rows, 
Like those long clouds the sunset 

shows 
On amber meadows of repose ; 
But, like a wind, the binders bright 
Soon followed in their mirthful might, 
And swept them into sheaves of light. 

Doubling the splendor of the plain, 
There rolled the great celestial wain, 
To gather in the fallen grain. 
j Its frame was built of golden bars ; 
Its glowing wheels were lit with stars ; 
The royal Harvest's car of cars. 

The snowy yoke, that drew the load, 
On gleaming hoofs of silver trode ; 
And music was its only goad. 



28 



326 



MISCELLA NEO US. 



To no command of word or beck 
It moved, and felt no other check 
Than one white arm laid on the 
neck : — 

The neck, whose light was over- 
wound 
"With bells of lilies, ringing round 
Their odors till the air was drowned : 
The starry foreheads meekly borne, 
With garlands looped from horn to 

horn, 
Shone like the many-colored morn. 

The field was cleared. Home went 

the bands, 
Like children, linking happy hands, 
While singing through their father's 

lands ; 
Or, arms about each other thrown, 
With amber tresses backward blown, 
They moved as they were music's own. 

The vision brightening more and 

more, 
He saw the garner's glowing door, 
And sheaves, like sunshine, strew the 

floor, — 
The floor was jasper, — golden flails, 
Swift-sailing as a whirlwind sails, 
Throbbed mellow music down the 

vales. 

He saw the mansion, — all repose, — 
Great corridors and porticos, 
Propped with the columns' shining 

rows ; 
And these, —for beauty was the 

rule, — 
The polished pavements, hard and 

cool, 
Eedoubled, like a crystal pool. 

And there the odorous feast was 

spread ; 
The fruity fragrance widely shed 
Seemed to the floating music wed. 
Seven angels, like the Pleiad seven, 
Their lips to silver clarions given, 
Blew welcome round the walls of 

heaven. 

In skyey garments, silky thin, 

The glad retainers floated in, 

A thousand forms, and yet no din : 



And from the visage of the Lord, 
Like splendor from the Orient poured, 
A smile illumined all the board. 

Par flew the music's circling sound, 
Then floated back, with soft rebound, 
To join, not mar, the converse 

round, — 
Sweet notes, that, melting, still in- 
creased, 
Such as ne'er cheered the bridal feast 
Of king in the enchanted East. 

Did any great door ope or close, 
It seemed the birth-time of repose ; 
The faint sound died where it arose ; 
And they who passed from door to 

door, 
Their soft feet" on the polished floor 
Met their soft shadows — nothing more. 

Then, once again the groups were 

drawn 
Through corridors, or down the lawn, 
Which bloomed in beauty like a dawn. 
W h ere countless fountains leapt al way, 
Veiling their silver heights in spray, 
The choral people held their way. 

There, 'midst the brightest, brightly 

shone 
Dear forms he loved in years agone, — 
The earliest loved, — the earliest flown. 
He heard a mother's sainted tongue; 
A sister's voice, who vanished young, 
While one still dearer sweetly sung ! 

No further might the scene unfold, 
The gazer's voice could not withhold, 
The very rapture made him bold : 
He cried aloud, with clasped hands, 
" O, happy fields ! O, happy bands ! 
Who reap the never-failing lands. 

" O, master of these broad estates, 

Behold, before your very gates 

A worn and wanting laborer waits ! 

Let me but toil amid your grain, 

Or be a gleaner on the plain, 

So I may leave these fields of pain ! 

"A gleaner, I will follow far, 
With never look or word to mar, 
Behind the Harvest's yellow car; 
All day my hand shall constant be, 
And every happy eve shall see 
The precious burden borne to Thee !" 



DOWN TO THE DUST. 



327 



At morn, some reapers neared the 

place, 
Strong men, whose feet recoiled apace, 
Then, gathering round the upturned 

face, 
They saw the lines of pain and care, 
Yet read in the expression there 
The look as of an answered prayer. 



DOWN TO THE DUST. 

A certain rich man, stern and proud, 
Yet, like a winter hemlock, bowed 
"With the accumulated weight 
Of many snows, o'er his estate 
Led his fair grandchild by the hand, 
Showing her miles and miles of land, 
Meadows and forests, and fields of 

grain, 
Far as her wondering eye could strain ; 
And all to be hers some future day ; 
All hers ! The realms which round 

them lay 
Descended were from a lofty line, 
Whose precious blood was wine, old 

wine, 
While others' was but water ! Now 
Their noble tree, from root to bough, 
Stood hopeless of all future fruit, 
Save from the little orphan shoot, 
Lovely as ever in spring was seen 
Flattering a dying tree with green. 

"All these broad lands are mine," he 

said, 
Laying his hand on the grandchild's 

head, 
"And shall be yours, all yours, one 

day; 
One day, but that is far away. 
In heavy coffers, iron-bound, 
I Jhave treasured many a golden 

pound, 
Gold, gold, all gold, — a thousandfold 
More than you'll dream till they are 

told. 
All yours, love, when my sun has set, 
But that, my child, is a long time yet. 

" This mighty forest must come down, 
And bring more gold from yonder 

town ; 
They want the wood wherewith to 

build, 
I want the gold for a plan unfilled, 



For I must rear a mansion grand, 
Grander than any in the land, 
At which the envious world will stare, 
As if a prince were quartered there ; 
And you the mistress of it all, 
The princess of that noble hall ; 
And then, at last, the queen, my dear ; 
The queen ! but not this many a year. 

" These cabins of my tenants old 
Must fall. They mar my dream of 

gold; 
They pay no rent ; the men, infirm, 
Have all outlived their useful term ; 

homes 

yield 
Their space to the golden harvest- 

fieid : — 
Down, down !" And he rubbed his 

hands with glee, 
Gloating over his prophecy ! 
The child gazed up with a look of pain, 
That could not make the justice plain, 
And sighed, " But would not that be 

wrong, 
Since they have worked for you' so 

long? 
What will become of the frail and old, 
If they have neither strength nor 

gold?" 
" That is naught to me," he said, " my 

child ; 
Chide from vour brain those questions 

wild : 
Who made them poor, and left them 

so, 
Must feed his ravens ; let them go ! 
My thoughts with grander schemes are 

filled, 
I want free scope whereon to build ! 

"And see, the mill-dam, there, is broke! 
And he whose heart was tough as oak, 
Too old to toil, too proud to sue, 
Sits on the sill with naught to do. 
And other mills, some miles away, 
Grind larger grists for smaller pay, 
And, therefore, must the mill come 

down !" 
Then the little child, with that piteous 

frown, 
Which is not anger, but seems to keep 
The tears back that she fain would 

weep, 
Demanded, with low, thoughtful head, 
" What will the people do for bread ?" 



328 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



"The best they can, — the best they 

can !" 
Was the jeering answer of the man. 
1 ' Let them go beg their cup and crust ; 
The old mill shall come down to dust 1 
The spot be cleared, the dam be tilled, 
To help the landscape when I build 1" 

He rubbed his hands with new delight, 
Then, taking one more circling sight, 
And with his own heart reconciled, 
Led home the little wondering^ child. 

That night the old man ate and drank, 
Thinking only of wealth and rank, 
And the mansion, which was all to 

him. 
He drank till his filmy eyes grew dim, 
Then, in his great deep-cushioned 

chair, 
Slept, and forgot his golden care. 
He slept; the chin upon his breast 
Sunk deep and deeper into rest, 
Till, with a sudden, noiseless sway, 
The dam of life was borne away. 
And now the stream lay dead and 

still ; 
The breast was cheerless as the mill ; 
The heart hung like a sultry wheel, 
"Where ne'er again the wave shall 

reel, 
And never yet was one so skilled, 
That dusty ruin to rebuild. 

Then laughed that shadowy miser, 

who 
Hath countless coffers, old and new, 
All buried full, and more to fill. 
il The dam is broke, the cumbrous mill 
Is useless now : the fate is just ; 
Come down it must ; ay, down to 

dust!" 
And, rubbing his ghostly hands in 

glee, 
Gloated over his prophecy. 

Then spake an angel, on whose tongue 
The tremulous voice of pity hung, 
" What will become of the houseless 

soul — 
He who sat there taking toll ? 
An outcast into nameless ways, 
Where foot of charity never strays ; 
Too old to toil ; too late to sue ; 
What will the friendless wanderer 

do?" 



replied. 
" Let the spirits which he deified, 
Which made him rich, yet kept him 

poor, 
Look to him now, for at my door 
No mercy dwells! Come down it 

must, 
This crumbling clay — down, down to 

dust ; 
And that last mansion which he 

willed, 
My busy architect shall build 1" 



THE WESTERN VINE. 

I sing the vine, — the western vine, 

The newly found, but not unsung ; 

Whose magic to the minstrel's 
tongue 
Made music flow through every line. 
Within its mellow amber deeps 

A mild and soothing spirit dwells, 
As innocent as that which sleeps 

In Poesy's Castalian wells. 
Then bless the wine, the mellow wine, 
That flows from the Catawba vine. 

From east to west this vine shall 
spread, 
Embowering all our vales and hills, 
And half of all our daily ills 

Shall vanish where its light is shed ; 

The fields are joyous where it grows, 
It makes the rugged hill -sides glad, 
And where with vines the porch is 
clad, 

There dwells the spirit of repose. 

Then bless the wine, the mellow wine, 

That flows from the Catawba vine. 

The fiends that lurk in burning 
draughts 
Shall no more poison cups of ours ; 
But when with us young Bacchus 
laughs, 
O'ershadowed by our vineyard 
bowers, 
The god shall think his cup is filled 
With honey-dew, at morn distilled 
By Flora from her purest flowers. 
Then bless the wine, the mellow wine, 
That flows from the Catawba vine. 



B URNS' S BIRTHDAY. 



329 



Oh, tell us not, ye over-wise, 

That God his choicest fruit has 
banned ; 

Those clusters from the Promised 
Land 
Were welcome to the prophet's eyes. 
Let him who would dilute his blood 

"With water at the festive board, 
Kemember how the crystal flood 

Was turned to purple by our Lord. 
Then bless the wine, the mellow wine, 
That flows from the Catawba vine. 

And yet, beneath these glorious skies, 

A nobler Vine o'erreaches all ; 

In its support, or in its fall, 
A mighty nation lives or dies ; 
Its boughs are weighed with Free- 
dom's fruit, 

Beyond the hungry fox's reach. 

With sturdy shoulders, each to each , 
Come, let us guard it branch and root ! 
And bless the wine, the sacred wine, 
That flows from our great Union vine. 



BURNS'S BIRTHDAY. 

My friends, the grape that charms 
the cup to-night 
Should be the noblest ever grown 
in cluster ; 
Our flowers of wit and song should 
be so bright 
That all the place should wear a 
noontide lustre. 

For he whose natal day, and mar- 
vellous worth, 
We strive to honor with our yearly 
- presence, 
Was of that clay so seldom found on 
earth, 
On which the gods bestow their 
purest essence. 

Ay, doubly bright should this ovation 
be; 
For we are honored far beyond your 
dreaming. 
The inward spirit bids me look and 
see 
Where comes the bard with light 
and music teeming. 



to wring 
The soul with fear, and urge to 

painful duty ; 
He comes ; let us behold the phantom 

king, 
The king of song, and marvel at 

his beauty. 



I see his presence in the luminous 
air, 
And feel no thrill to make my blood 
run colder ; 
He stands beside our presidential 
chair, 
With loving arm upon a Scotch- 
man's shoulder. 



Upon his brow a crown of glory 
beams ; 
His robe of splendor makes the 
lamplight hazy ; 
In his right hand a pledging goblet 
gleams, 
The other holds a "crimson-tippet 
daisy." 

Of deathless rainbows is his tartan 
plaid ; 
His bonnet now is the celestial 
laurel ; 
And on his face the light of song 
betrayed 
Makes all the room with poesy 
grow choral. 

With eye of inspiration stands the 
bard ; 
His lips are moving, though no 
sound can follow. 
Let me translate, — although the task 
is hard, 
To justly render Scotland's sweet 
Apollo. 

" Dear friends, and brother Scotsmen, 
doubly dear," 
'Tis thus the poet looks his kind 
oration, 
" The day is come, which once in 
every year 
Calls me to make my wonted visi- 
tation. 



28* 



330 



3IISCELLANEOUS. 



11 I glide through Caledonian halls 
of mirth, 
Where votive feast and song to- 
gether mingle ; 
I seek the cot, — the sweetest place on 
earth 
Is just the simple peasant's glowing 
ingle. 



11 The haughty Briton lights his dusk 
saloon, 
Forgetting all his rancor for Prince 
Charley, 
And to the ploughman-bard of Ayr 
and Doon 
Pledges the smoking bree of Scot- 
tish barley. 



"Where'er a ship upon the ocean 
swings, 
To-night, before the mariners seek 
their pillows, 
My songs shall sail on their melodious 
wings, 
Like sea-birds o'er the phosphores- 
cent billows. 



" By Indian river, and Australian 
mine, 
And by the wall of China's old 
dominions, 
My verse above their cups of mellow 
wine 
Shall fan the air to music with its 
pinions. 

" The far Canadian winter hears my 
name; 
E'en where the trapper's northern 
home is chosen, 
The songs of Scotland, mingling with 
the flame, 
Warm all within, though all with- 
out be frozen. 



" Bv Californian shores and forests 
old, 
Where, like a mighty bard new 
realms discerning, 
The gray Pacific, over sands of gold, 
Chants his great song, the glittering 
metal spurning ; 



" In new-built towns, and round the 
miner's lamp, 
Or on the plains, or by the Colorado ; 
Where'er the far adventurous train 
may camp, 
My song to-night shall cheer the 
deepest shadow. 



" Or in the snow-beleaguered tents of 
strife, 
By jocund fires, or beds of painful 
story, 
Health shall take courage, and the 
sick new life, 
To hear of Wallace, and of Bruce's 
glory. 



" Oh that my song might be as bolts 
of fire, 
Within the grasp of soldiers and of 
seamen ! 
The bard profanely wakes the sacred 
lyre, 
Who chants no strain to nerve the 
hearts of freemen. 



" From town to town, obedient to the 
call, 
I pass in haste, for envious Time is 
fleeting, 
As oft before, within this noble hall, 
I greet the friends who cheer me 
with their greeting. 



" Here in your midst, my brothers, 
once again, 
I stand to-night a saddened guest 
and speaker ; 
I miss among you certain noble 
men, 
Who erewhile pledged me in a 
brimming beaker. 



" For your sakes saddened, — not, my 
friends, for mine, — 
You mourn their music, and their 
pleasant sallies ; 
But we together pledge nectarean 
wine 
And join our song in amaranthine 
valleys. 



TO BRYANT. 



331 



"I see the forms your sight cannot 
discern ; 
I see the smile across their happy 
faces ; 
With eye of loving faith look round 
and learn 
Your friends are here, — there are 
no empty places. 

" From shadowy goblets held in fin- 
gers- dim, 
We drain the glass that keeps the 
memory vernal, 
Our cups with yours are clinking brim 
to brim, 
And thus we pledge you in a 
draught fraternal. 

" Adieu, adieu ! across the eternal sea 
Still let us hear your pleasant song 
and laughter, 
And let the love you bear me, warrant 
be 
Of love as deep for all true bards 
hereafter." 



TO . BRYANT, 

ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. 

What time I ope, with reverential 
love, 
One of the charmed volumes of my 
choice, 
I hear, as in the cloister of the grove, 
The solemn music of thy Druid 
voice. 

All sights and sounds that can delight 
impart, 
Or whatsoe'er athwart thy vision 
swims, 
Before the altar of the world's great 
heart, 
Thou nobly breathest in undying 
hymns. 

For thy broad love there is no flower 
too small. 
Nor scene too vast for thy encircling 
mind ; 
Thy heart is one with Nature's, yet 
o'er all 
Rises its sweet vibrations for man- 
kind. 



The faintest breath that finds a flow- 
ery nook ; 
The flying winds with wild and 
gust-wise locks ; 
The pebble, which the lapidary brook 
Rounds into form, or ocean, scorn- 
ing, rocks ; 



The burnished bluebird with the 
spring-time song ; 
The azure-winged runnel's April 
call; 
The timid wren : the falcon fierce and 
strong ; 
The soaring water-fowl, the swoop- 
ing fall ; 



The glowworm's lantern, and the 
lunar car ; 
The midnight taper, and the noon- 
day sun ; 
The pool where swims the lily like a 
star ; 
The boundless sea, with lily-sails 
o'errun ; 

The brooklet-blade, the brightest 
wavelet moves 
Where childhood's paper sails are 
set unfurled ; 
The antique home, or shade ; the 
oaken groves, 
Growing the ponderous navies of 
the world : 



The peaceful hearthstone, and the 
roaring field ; 
The song-bird, and our eagle on 
his crag ; 
The love that all that quiet home can 
yield ; 
The love of country, freedom, and 
her flag : — 



All these are thine, thou pioneer of 
song, 
Bard of the prairie and primeval 
grove ; 
And unto thee our praise may well 
belong ; 
Yes, more than praise — the homage 
of our love. 



332 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



And this is thine and therefore I 
obey, 
And bow before thy Druid locks 
of snow ; 
And on thy sacred altar here I 
lay 
My votive branch of western mis- 
tletoe. 



TO HYPERION. 

Our land is like a prairie overswept 
With tempest flame, around the 
horizon whirled ; 
By fiery swords our harvest-fields are 
reapt ; 
By maniac winds the blazing 
sheaves are hurled ; 
"Where swift Destruction strides 
through cinders deep, 
The blinding ashes, blown about 
the world, 
Whiten our sackcloth where we sit 
and weep. 
The whole broad sky is choked with 
fire and dust ; 
With reeling clouds of sulphur over- 
run, 
What wonder that the bright star 
of your trust, 
The noble planet of your minstrel 

dawn, 
Should be this hour, by careful 
Heaven withdrawn, 
Caught by a sudden and celestial 
gust 
Into the jrlad embraces of the sun? 



DAWN. 

Within a gray Empire of dawn and 

of dew, 
Where rung the clear clarion which 

chanticleer blew ; 
Which sang to the stars, and rang 

round to the sea, 
Proclaiming a triumph and glory to 

be ; — 



A realm where the air of the primeval 

gloom 
Was thick with the night-opening 

blossoms' perfume; 
Where all the wide world of those 

delicate blooms, 
The heirs of the daylight, lay still in 

their tombs, 
Awaiting the summons, by young 

April given, 
Blown down through the morning-lit 

portals of Heaven : 

There, dank with the dew, and o'er- 

veiled with this dawn, 
The shadowy nations went towering 

on, 
Enlarged by the dimness, gigantic, 

sublime, 
They walked in this long-vanished 

twilight of Time. 

There were marvellous marble-built 

marts where the sea 
Proclaimed the same problem he 

utters to me ; 
There were shadowy fanes on each 

shadowy height, 
And purple-dusk pyramids piercing 

the night 
So far, that their pinnacles dialed the 

sky; 
And the stars, for the shepherds to 

calendar by, 
Their peaks in the blue, and their feet 

in the sand ; 
Each a tomb in its gloom, that o'er- 

shadowed the land, 
And between, meaning more than 

philosophy thinks, 
In the desert, breast-deep, sat, like 

Egypt, the Sphinx. 

There were altars aflush with the 
horrible sign, 

As if Murder had thrown his red 
cloak on the shrine ; 

And statues of Terror, with faces un- 
couth, 

Where the world in its error still 
stumbled at truth. 

And a murmur arose, as when billows 
in vain 

Rage round some lone rock that no 
answer will deign. 



TO R. H. 



333 



Strange Druidical henges encircled 
the wold ; 

Dusk granite enigmas, no time can 
unfold ; 

Great dogmas in stone, a grand, ter- 
rible creed ; 

A hieroglyphic worship, God only 
could read. 

Along these great woods, and among 
these great piles, 

A priesthood, mysterious, shed awe 
through the aisles. 

In rain the sweet herbage looked up 
from the sod 

And pointed to Heaven, and whis- 
pered of God ; 

And the night preached in vain, with 
its stars and its tears, 

The truths it has taught through its 
millions of vears. 



Still the soul in its chains, self-abased 

and abused, 
The light only dazzled, sounds only 

confused. 
Till a God, in His pity, came down as 

a child, 
And walked 'mid those temples which 

night had denied, 
And solved the old riddles in language 

so plain 
That the mystery dispelled could not 

settle again. 



Then man, in his wisdom, perverse as 

a blast. 
Dismantled the world of each shred 

of the past ; 
The piles were no longer Divinity's 

throne ; 
The rocks were but rocks, and the 

sphinx but a stone. 
The hills were disrobed, and the groves 

were but trees, 
And the voice of the ocean was only 

the seas. 



But the faith of the bard ma}- not 

scorn what is gone : 
"While it stands in the noon it looks 

back to the dawn. 
Believing the good in all worships, it 

feels 
A divinity present wherever it kneels. 



TO R. H., 

OX RECEIVING FROM HTM A BEAUTI- 
FUL SILVER ERUIT-DISH, CHRIST- 
MAS, 1864. 

Out of what charmed artisfs brain 
Came the beautiful form I here 
behold ? 
The soul of a glorious Greek, it is 
plain, 
| Must have dreamed this dream of 
silver and gold. 
Perchance he lived in an attic cold, 
His guest the sun, and the rain, and 
the wind ; 
His only riches the wealth untold 
Which glows and gleams in the artist 
mind ; 
Doomed never to taste the far-off 
fruit 
That shall crown this carved and 
delicate brim. 
Does he walk the world ? or is he 
mute 
In the dust of buried ages dim ? 
Though he lives or sleeps in his 
funeral suit, 
The heart of the bard goes out to him. 

With this wonderful work before me 

placed, 
So pure in its beauty, embossed and 
chased, 
The fancy suddenly plumes her 
wing 
And flies to regions w r here never yet 
Her noiseless and venturous feet were 
set, 
And, as she flies, she needs must 
sing ; 
She hovers o'er Indian mines afar, 

And seeks the fabulous Ophir field ; 
And Palestine under its Christmas 
star ; 
Or, in Hellas, finds some Homerian 
shield, 
Into ingots made by the greed of a 
Turk ; 
Orbeautiful censer, a rare antique, 
Swung in the hands of a Roman or 
Greek ; 
Or delicate imago, Athenian work. 
Melted and sold by some infidel thief, 
Whom the gods have long since 
brought to grief; 



334 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Or wonderful vase, by Cellini made, 
To grace the cloth of some 

princely board ; 
Or traces within the Cathedral shade 
Those sainted and silver statues 

tine, 
Which Cromwell, going from shrine 

to shrine, 
Cast angrily down in the name 

of the Lord, 
Then rolled them in coin through the 

world of trade, 
Till they slept, perchance, in a 

miser's hoard. 
She sweeps where Brazilian summer 

shines 
Into the shades of the Andean mines ; 
By turbulent rivers, broad, deep, and 

bold, 
'Mid California's hills of gold ; 
Under giant cedars, antique as man, 
Planted ere History's life began ; 
And there beholds, in its glittering 

birth, 
The new-found ore as old as the 

earth. 



A thousand mystical guesses arise 

And swim in the dream-light of her 
eyes — 

But all in vain ; she only knows 

That this beautiful form before her 
glows, 

Silver without and golden within ; 
It gleams like a rising harvest- 
moon, 

"When labor ceases and pleasures 
begin 
In a land of fruit at the close of 
June. 

Alive with its light is the twilight 
room, 

And already I breathe the sweet per- 
fume, 

The delicious odors that seem to swim 

Around its future laden brim ; 

The grape and the plum, the pear and 
the peach, 

All these seem glowing within my 
reach, 

And mingling its delicate odor and 
smile 

Is the fruit of many a far-off isle ; 

But sweeter still the thought ascends, 

Around it I see kind groups of friends. 



The metal is solid, and massive, and 
pure, 
And wrought with all skill that an 
artist can lend ; 
But there's something exists that 
I value still more — 
It is this ; and the Master Designer,, 
I'm sure, 
Took out from Humanity's mine 
the best ore 
To make it — the generous heart 
of my friend. 



OUR SOLDIERS' FAMILIES. 

A PROLOGUE, DELIVERED ON THE OC- 
CASION OF AN AMATEUR PERFORM- 
ANCE OF HAMLET FOR THE BENEFIT 
OF THE SOLDIERS' FAMILIES IN 
CINCINNATI, FEBRUARY 6, 1805. 

Our soldiers' families 1 How the 

fancy roams, 
And finds these patient patriots in 

their homes ; 
Finds them at quiet firesides — nobly 

there — 
Waiting beside the hero's empty 

chair ; 
Beside the chair, perchance, which 

never more 
Shall know the occupant it knew of 

yore. 

Look in to-night beside that tranquil 
fire : 

There sits the mother, there the aged 
sire ; 

Or there the wife, with matron ac- 
cents mild, 

Teaching a patriot prayer unto her 
child ; 

A prayer for him who put his all at 
stake, 

His all (save honor), for his country's 
sake. 

There sits the maid with eyes of dream- 
ful light, 

Watching her warrior-lover in the 
fight ; 

Beholds him with a swelling heart of 
pride 

With fiery Phil along the valley ride; 



OUR SOLDIERS' FAMILIES. 



335 



Or Grant, or Thomas, our stern, sturdy ! Our soldiers' families! Mark the 

glorious sight ; 

For them the Swan of Avon sings 
to-night, 

The earth's great laureate, whose im- 
mortal skill 

Created worlds and peopled them at 
will, 

Whose wizard wand, at one majestic 
swing, 

Could make a kingdom, or dethrone 
a king ; 

For them he bids the spectre monarch 
rise ; 

For them the sweet Ophelia sings and 
dies ; 

For them he asks a sovereign of our 
own 

To leave to-night his magisterial 
throne, 

To lay aside awhile his genial vein, 

To look, and think, and be the melan- 
choly Dane. 



George, 

Whose stalwart blows fall thunder- 
ing like a forge ; 

Or, with his eastward banner, sees 
him swoop 

Through Georgian fields with Sher- 
man's eagle troop. 

Perchance his lot is on the ocean 
cast, 

Where Farragut stands steadfast as 
his mast ; 

Perchance, with Winslow, poured the 
shot and shell 

From guns which rung the British 
pirate's knell ; 

Or at Stone River stemmed the leaden 
shower, 

Where noble " Rosey" saved the des- 
perate hour ; 

Or with that glorious chief to whom 
was given 

The right to scale above the clouds 
of heaven, 

And bear the starry rainbow flag on 

Back to ks native region in the skv. 0llr S ? ldiers ' fami] 
Behold our general, on the rocky T ,. have Come 

i.„:„u.° ' " This 



height, 

A stately statue in a dome of light ! 
With all the rebel army put to rout 
Our fighting Hooker takes a long 



generous audience, packed from 
pit to dome. 
For them (would it were worthier) 
here I lay 



Lookout 



° Upon their altar this, my light bou- 
quet ; 



While through his armv shouts on ! . -, .? ' , A , . , . ,, 

shoulslncreasp And "> P erc '' iar >ce, their kindly eves 



shouts increase, 
Hailing this true commissioner of 
Peace. 

Our soldiers' families ! Some are 

veiled in gloom ; 
The mourners' crape pervades the 

solemn room ; 
There, though the tears in sorrowing 

eyes may start, 
There is no murmur in a patriot heart. 
Though sad the lot, the recompense is 

plain, 
They hear the falling of the bond- 
man's chain, 
And hear the song of freedom from 

the South, 
While shouts of " Union" pass from 

mouth to mouth ; 
In glory's cause the warrior died 

content, 
With human liberty for monument. 



should view 
j Among the leaves some random drops 
of dew, 
Believe them each the poet's loving 

tear 
In secret shed beside some patriot's 
bier. 



Newly descended from their high 

estate, 
For them, be sure, the angels watch 

and wait ; 
Our patriot sires, who all our freedom 

gave, 
Look down and bless the households 

of the brave ; 
But, grander still, within his dome 

of domes, 
God smiles His blessing on our Sol- 



diers' Homes I 



336 



MISCELLA XEO US. 



EPITHALAMIUM. 



TO MAJOR-GENERAL W- 



There's a glorious group in Parian 
stone, 
Which made the sculptor a death- 
less name ; 

"War stands with his strong arm 
gently thrown 
Bound Beauty, that lives in im- 
mortal fame, 

By the gods conceded the brightest 
and best ; 

Her light hand lies on his manly 
breast, 

To find, as it were, how his great 
heart stirs. 

His noble eyes look down on hers — 

That look which only love confers — 

"While hers beam tenderly up to him 

In the depth of their love-light, dewy 
dim ; 

And over both, with hymeneal flame, 
Brave Cupid proclaims his trium- 
phant endeavor — 

Then Beauty and War, in the world 
of fame, 
Stand wedded in spotless marble 
forever. 

And thus our Union Mars to-day, 
A warrior as noble, as brave, as tall, 
Stands with his bride, and over all 
Love hovers, and whispers his sweet 

commands, 
Blessing the union of hearts and 

hands ; 
And, joining with him in his dear 

endeavor, 
Let us bless the Union for ever and 

ever. 



THE CABLE. 

LAID BY THE " AGAMEMNON" AND 
" NIAGARA." 

'Tis fit the grand old kingly name 
Of which the kingliest poet sings 

Should eastward bear Jove's track of 
flame, 
And link it to the land of kings. 



'Tis well Niagara, whose renown 
"With Freedom mingles evermore, 

Should westward lay its burden down, 
And chain the world to Freedom's 
shore. 

'Tis done ; the angry sea consents — 
The nations stand no more apart ; 

With clasped hands the continents 
Feel throbbings of each other's 
heart. 

Speed, speed the Cable ; let it run, 
A loving girdle, round the earth, 

Till all the nations 'neath the sun 
Shall be as brothers at one hearth, — 

As brothers, pledging hand in hand, 
One freedom for the world abroad, 

One commerce over every land, 
One language, and one God I 



WHAT A WORD MAY DO. 

One day, as we sat at a generous board, 
Where wine with a liberal hand was 

poured, 
I heard a beautiful lady say, 
Whose lord had sometimes gone 

astray, 
Just as the sparkling cup was raised, 
That one too much for a social 

dinner — 
A rebuke, I am sure, the angels 

praised — 
"I hate the sin, but I love the 

sinner." 

Down went the cup to the snowy cloth, 
Brimming and lau^hinc; with creamv 

froth, 
That quickly flattened below the brim, 
While the master's eye with a haze 

grew dim ; 
And, ever after, the wine at his side 
Wooed him in vain as it sparkled and 

died ; 
And though he should sit at the board 

of a duke, 
'Mid the kingliest wines of a 

princely dinner, 
He would still remember that sweet 

rebuke, 
"I hate the sin, but I love the 

sinner." 



HEART AND HEARTH. 



337 



TO LUCY.* 

ACCOMPANIED BY A TOY. 

Dear Lucy, the light of your sweet 
little face 
I have heard by good judges pro- 
claimed ; 
If it bears of your beautiful mother 
a trace, 
Then, darling, you are properly 
named. 

They christened you "Lucy," my 
dear little one, 
And, if what I am told is half true, 
That you shine in the house like a 
ra} r of the sun, 
I don't know what else they could 
do. 

A dear, truant angel, just out of the 
sky, 
You needs must be radiant, I'm 
sure: 
May the light of your smile, and the 
light of your eye, 
Undimmed in their lustre endure ! 

With this toy — no great thing, but it 
still might be worse — 
You can whistle, or ring out a 
chime ; 
Accept, too, this poor penny-whistle 
of verse, 
With its light jingling rattle of 
rhyme. 



THE FOOL'S ARROW. 

The fool who shot against the noon- 
day sun, 

Then stood agape to note the mischief 
done, 

Just as he thought the missile at its 
place, 

Received the returning arrow in his 
face ; 

But, still a fool,— though bleeding, 
and in pain,— 

His vanity could make the matter 
plain: 



" Behold !" he cried, " Apollo's jeal- 
ous spite 

Lets fly this shaft at my superior 
light!" 



EPITAPH. 

FOR MRS. M 




Toward the dark gate we saw her 

slowly glide, 
The angel Patience moving at her 

side ; 
The noiseless portal opened, and the 

light 
A moment gleamed, then left us in 

the night, 
Where still we sit beside her sacred 

urn, 
Praying the angel Patience to return. 



HEART AND HEARTH. 

We sat and watched the hearth-fire 
blaze. 

My friend and I together ; 
The crickets sang of harvest days, 

The wood of summer weather. 

It told of shade, of storm and sun, 

Its native Oakland story : 
To him it only spake of one 

Who turned all gloom to glory. 

The cricket carolled still of noon, 
Bright with the sun's caresses ; 

To him it called a form like June, 
Aflush with golden tresses. 

Within the flame a spirit seemed 
To soar and sway and falter, 

While in his heart a presence beamed 
More steadfast on its altar. 

The embers, in their ashen bed, 
Looked out with transient flashes ; 

He only saw sweet eyes that shed 
Their rays through twilight lashes. 

O'er stubblod fields the autumn wailed, 
In low and mournful closes ; 

He only heard a song that sailed 
O'er charmed realms of roses. 



338 



MISCELLANEO US. 



His eyes, once lit with battle-ire, 
Aflame with warrior-science, 

Forgot their fierce, controlling fire' 
Their flashes of defiance ; 

But, with a dreamy love-light blest, 
More luminous grew and tender, 

As if the image in his breast 
Had lit them with its splendor. 

The voice that once his ardor proved, 
Along the roaring column, 

Now to mysterious measures moved 
Subdued, serenely solemn. 

He named her — and the soft words 
came 

In musical completeness, 
As if the breathing of that name 

Had touched his lips with sweetness. 

We grow like what we contemplate — 
And all his face was laden 

With light, as it would emulate 
The brightness of the maiden. 

The moon, full blown to lily-white, 
Looked in, with love-lorn pallor; 

She knew his frame forgot its might, 
His will forgot its valor. 

She kissed his brow and smoothed his 
hair, 

Like a consoling mother, 
And whispered, " I too only wear 

The brightness of another. 

" Like Ruth, I walk his broad domain, 
And wait his lordly gesture ; 

I glean his light, but reach in vain 
To touch his princely vesture." 

With many a sympathetic guest, 
The air hung, star-beleaguered, 

When lo ! to her who filled his breast, 
Pale Dian stood transfigured. 

She smiled on her Endymion, 
And charmed his dreamy vision, 

And all his soul new glory won 
Before the sweet transition. 

The vision fled — my friend was gone, 

And left me idly gazing ; 
But in the hearth-light I was shown 

A future altar blazing. 



THE GOLDEN NOW. 

The earth is loud with discontent- 
ments muttered 
By foolish mouths — the selfish and 
the vain ; 
And yet a world of agony unuttered 
Lies behind lips that never tell 
their pain. 

The voiceless dark is loaded with re- 
pentance, 
In solemn courts of midnight, 
where, o'ercast 
With sorrow, Conscience looks its 
silent sentence 
Against the culprit actions of the 
past. 

And countless eyes, aglaze with hot 
reflections, 
Stare down the highway which 
their feet have known, 
Where stand afar the ghostly recol- 
lections, 
Like frowning statues not to be 
o'erthrown. 



While fancy sees them rise in retri- 
butions, 
A spectre file along the future 
way, 
To blight the hopes and chill the reso- 
lutions 
Which Night should marshal for 
the coming day. 

Oh, ye who cower or tremble at the 
errors 
Rebuking Memory conjures where 
you wait, 
Rise, and against the past with all its 
terrors, 
With hand indignant, swing the 
iron gate ! 

Rise in the Golden Now, and ope its 
portal, 
That doorway which to-morrow 
never opes — 
Worthy your manhood and your soul 
immortal, 
Go forward to the harvest of your 
hopes. 



THE SLEEP OF DEATH. 



339 



Nor let the future mantle of December 
Become a coward's sack cloth, 
ashen gray, 
To doom your aged anguish to re- 
member 
The precious chances you refuse to- 
day. 

What's done is done — let errors past 
recalling 
In gulfy waters of oblivion drown : 
The fret of retrospection, hot and 
galling, 
"Wilts to the root the flower of cour- 
age down, 

Until despair half makes the soul 
contented 
To sit reluctant at the yet untried ; 
Perpetual brooding over what's re- 
pented 
Is but the drug of constant suicide. 

Such sorrow is a winter owl, fore- 
boding 
For future wildernesses nights of 
care, 
"While cheerful thoughts are happy 
song-birds, loading 
With May-time music all the sum- 
mer air. 

The vain regrets we nurture in our 
bosoms 
Are deadly nightshades, which we 
feed with tears ; 
But all the heart becomes a bed of 
blossoms, 
When hope is jocund and content- 
ment cheers. 

Shake from your feet the dust with 
wholesome scorning 
Against the ugly, ne'er-to-be un- 
done ! 
From out the cloudy darkness, like 
the morning, 
With glowing brow go forth into 
the sun, 

And to the duty nearest, most defiant, 
With steadfast courage, lay your 
shouldered strength, 
And, conquering more than cities, like 
a giant, 
Arise the master of yourself at 
length. 



Prophetic hopes shall lead you to new 
pleasures, 
Along the yielding pathway of the 
plough, 
To yellow harvests and to orchard 
treasures, 
The fruit of action in the Golden 
Now. 

And when the tranquil evening 
crowns your labor 
With sheaves, and fruits, and wel- 
come household songs. 
At peace with Heaven, your con- 
science, and your neighbor, 
Kesign your prayerful heart where 

it belongs. 
Rome, November, 1871. 

MY LILY 

ON THE VIRGIN'S BOSOM. 

The sun was white in all the streets 
of Florence, 
His splendor burned upon the 
bridge and river, 
While fate rained down her pestilence 
in torrents, 
Bereaving me forever. 

Nay; not forever! on the Virgin's 
bosom 
I see the emblem of my sainted 
daughter — 
She holds my lily in perpetual blos- 
som — 
I find her where I sought her. 

Close to her heart, with all a mother's 
patience, 
She bears my flower, enticing me 
to meet her : 
Dear Virgin, at thy Son's appointed 
Stations 
I kneel, and kneel, and climb, 
That I at last may greet her. 



THE SLEEP OF DEATH. 

We nightly die ourselves to sloop, 
Then wherefore fear we Death ? 

'Tis but a slumber still more deep, 
And undisturbed by breath. 



340 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



We daily waken to the light, 
When Morning walks her way, 

Then wherefore doubt Death's longer 
night 
Will bring a brighter day ? 



The 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

still o'er Bethlehem's 



air was 
plain, 
As if the great Night held its breath 
When Life Eternal came to reign 
Over a world of Death. 

The pagan at his midnight board 

Let fall his brimming cup of gold 
He felt the presence of his Lord 
Before His birth was told. 

The temples trembled to their base, 

The idols shuddered as in pain : 
A priesthood in its power of place 



All Nature felt a thrill divine 

When burst that meteor on the 
night, 
Which, pointing to the Saviour's 
shrine, 
Proclaimed the new-born light — 

Light to the shepherds ! and the star 
Gilded their silent midnight fold — 
Light to the Wise Men from afar, 
Bearing their gifts of gold. 

Light to a realm of Sin and Grief — 
Lio-ht to a world in all its needs — 
The Light of life — a new belief 
Rising o'er fallen creeds — 

Light on a tangled path of thorns, 
Though leading to a martyr's 
throne — 
A Light to guide till Christ returns 
In glory to His own. 

There still it shines, while far abroad 
The Christmas choir sings now, as 
then, 
" Glory, glory unto God ! 

Peace and good-will to men I" 
Rome, Christmas, 1871. 



NOTES. 



Page 89. 

1 All week he tends within his noisy mill. 

There are those who, perhaps, will be 
struck with the novelty of a man devoting 
his Sabbaths to the pulpit, and his week- 
days to an occupation which would seem 
to allow him but little time for study and 
meditation ; but, if they knew our rural 
districts better, they would probably call 
to mind many originals of the picture 
which I have attempted to draw. The 
" local preacher," I believe, not only re- 
ceives no salary, but is generally one of 
the first persons called upon in cases of 
charity. It is with no intention to dis- 
parage the ministerial profession that this 
character is drawn : on the contrary, no 
one can hold in higher esteem than I do, 
that valorous army of ill-rewarded men 
who nobly sacrifice all worldly consider- 
ations for the amelioration of their fellows. 

Page 103. 

2 The kingbird hovers, darting on his prey 
And takes the ventured argosy of sweets. 

Since this passage was written, the sup- 
posed fact has become a disputed question. 
I shall be glad to find that I have done 
this little marauder injustice. 

Page 127. 

3 And much they talk 
Of news which lately, fioni the far-off West, 
Startled the calm community. 

The time represented in this poem was 
about the year 1832, at which period, as 
many will remember, the "backwoods 
fever*' was especially prevalent. 

Page 154. 

* Such was the realm of Boone, the pioneer, 
Whose statue, in the eternal niche of fame, 
Leans on his gleaming rifle. 

If it is not taking too much liberty, I 
would BUggest that Kentucky might also 
find a niche in her capitol for a statue of 
the father of her State. It is a subject 



I which her own sculptor, Mr. Hart, would 
treat with propriety and enthusiasm. 

Page 157. 

5 Thou, who beneath thine own Catawba vine. 

There is no man to whom the West is 
more indebted than to Mr. X. Longworth, 
of Cincinnati. And chief among the 
benefits which he has conferred must be 
regarded the introduction of the grape- 
culture. The country will yet acknowledge 
•him to be the most effectual apostle of 
Temperance: for it is a remarkable fact 
that the vineyard is the antagonist of the 
still-house, and that in vine-growing coun- 
tries the curse of alcohol is not known. 

Page 176. 

6 And let thy stature shine above the world, 
A form of terror and of loveliness. 

This passage was suggested by Powers's 
statue of "America," — one of the few 
works worthy to become the property of a 
nation. 

Page 192. 

7 Monte Testaccio, or "hill of broken 
crockery," rising as it does to the height 
of one hundred and sixty-five feet, out 
of what was formerly a swamp, is one of 
the enigmas of Rome which have baffled 
the antiquary. Its height commands a 
fine view of the city and surrounding 
country. It is about forty-five hundred 
feet in circumference at the base. That it 
is composed of one mass of broken earthen- 
ware is well attested by the wine-vaults 
which perforate it on all sides, some to a 
great depth. It is supposed by some anti- 
quaries — and I think with great reason — 
to have been built of the refuse of the an- 
cient potteries established in this vicinity 
by Tarquinius Priscua. Others pronounce 
it to be the debris collected from the streets 
of Rome in later centuries. That this 
curious mountain has not been added to or 
changed, and that it has been used as a 
wine-magazine for hundreds of years, is 



29' 



341 



342 



NOTES. 



proved by the most ancient charts and 
maps of Rome. It is near the gate lead- 
ing to St. Paul's Church and to Ostia. The 
Pyramid of Caius Cestius and the Protest- 
ant Cemetery lie between. In this latter 
are the tombs of Shelley and Keats. 
Monte Testaceio and its vicinity are espe- 
cially gay with music, dancing, and merry- 
making generally during the vintage 
season. The costumes of the peasants, 
the brilliant trappings of the wine-carts 
and horses, make the scene attractive, not 
only to the artist, but to all lovers of the 
picturesque. 

Page 193. 

8 Casale Rotondo, six miles beyond the 
Porte San Sebastiano, is the largest, and, 
with the exception of the Caecilia Metella, 
which it resembles, the best-preserved, 
monument of this ancient street of tombs. 
It is supposed to have been ereottd to 
Messala Corvinus, the friend of Horace. 
On the summit of this immense sepulchre 
are a farm-house, a stable, and a small 
olive-orchard. 

Page 228. 

9 Some relics, consisting of a piece of 
Penn's " Treaty Elm," of the old frigate 
'* Alliance," and the halliards of the sloop- 
of-war " Cumberland," wrought into ap- 
propriate form, were presented to President 
Lincoln by James E. Murdoch, Esq., and 
this poem was written to accompany them. 

Page 252. 

10 With horrid noise of horn and pan, 
Had borne in mockery up and down, 
The noisiest Tory of the town. 

" Among the disaffected in Philadelphia, 

Dr. K was pre-eminently ardent and 

rash. An extremely zealous loyalist, and 
impetuous in his temper, he had given 
much umbrage to the Whigs, and, if I am 
not mistaken, he had been detected in 
some hostile machinations: hence he was 
deemed a proper subject for the fashion- 
able punishment of tarring, feathering, 
and carting. He was seized at his own 
door by a party of militia, and, in an 
attempt to resist them, received a wound 
in his hand from a bayonet. Being over- 
powered, he was placed in a cart provided 
for the purpose, and, amid a multitude 
of boys and idlers, paraded through the 
streets to the tune of the royal march. I 
happened to be at the Coffee-House when 
the concourse arrived there. They made 
a halt; when the doctor, foaming with 



rage and indignation, without his hat, 
his wig dishevelled and bloody from bis 
wounded hand, stood up in the cart and 
called for a bowl of punch. It was quickly 
handed to him, — when so vehement was 
his thirst that he drained it of its contents 
before he took it from his lips. . . . 

" It must be admitted, however, that 
the conduct of the populace was marked 
by a lenity whjch peculiarly distinguished 
t/ie cradle of our republicanism. Tar and 
feathers had been dispensed icith, and, ex- 
cepting the injury he had received in his 
hand, no sort of violence was offered by the 
mob to their victim." — Gray don' 8 Memoirs 
of his Own Times. 

Page 255. 

11 Oh, would some sweet bird of the South 
Might build in every caunon's mouth. 

This part of the poem was written six 
years ago [*'.e., 1855] ; consequently the 
passage was not suggested by the cannon 
which " Disunion" has since then pointed 
against the North. 

Page 258. 

12 And, lo! he met their wondering eyes 
Complete in all a warrior's guise. 

"In concluding his farewell sermon, he 
said that, in the language of Holy Writ, 
'there was a time for all things, — a time 
to preach, and a time to pray, — but those 
times had passed away;' and then, in a 
voice that echoed like a trumpet-blast 
through the church, he said that 'there 
was a time to fight, and that time had now 
come.' Then, laying aside his sacerdotal 
gown, he stood before his flock in the full 
regimental dress of a Virginia colonel. 
He ordered the drums to be beaten at the 
church-door for recruits, and almost all his 
male audience capable of bearing arms 
joined his standard." — Lossing's Sketch 
of the Life of General Muhlenberg. 

■ Page 262. 

13 He gained the river and the cave. 

The cave referred to is not a creation of 
the fancy, but exists in the vicinity indi- 
cated, and is the scene of more than one 
romantic legend. 

Page 264. 

M I watched the long, long ranks go by. 

" Washington, in order to encourage 
its friends and dishearten its enemies, 
marched with the whole army through the 
city down Front and up Chestnut Streets. 



NOTES. 



343 



Great pains were taken to make the dis- 
play as imposing as possible. To give 
them something of a uniform appearance, 
they had sprigs of green in their hats. 
"Washington rode at the head of his troops, 
attended by his numerous staff, with the 
Marquis Lafayette by his side. The long 
column of the army, broken into divisions 
and brigades, the pioneers with their axes, 
the squadrons of horse, the extended 
trains of artillery, the tramp of steed, the 
bray of trumpet and spirit-stirring sound 
of drum and fife, — all had an imposing 
effect on a peaceful city unused to the 
sight of marshalled armies. The disaf- 
fected, who had been taught to believe the 
American forces much less than they were 
in reality, were astonished as they gazed 
on the lengthening procession of a host 
which to their unpractised eyes appeared 
innumerable; while the Whigs, gaining 
fresh hope and animation from the sight, 
cheered the patriot squadrons as they 
passed." — Irving'* Life of Washington. 

Page 268. 

15 The soft air felt the jar 
Of thunder rulliug from afar. 

All the chronicles agree in stating that 
the cannonading at the battle of Brandy- 
wine was distinctly heard at Philadelphia 
and its vicinity. 

Page 275. 

16 The vapor dank 
Of morning hanging gray and blank. 

A heavy fog enveloped Germantown on 
the morning of the battle, which, " to- 
gether with the smoke of the cannon and 
musketry," says Irving, "made it almost 
as dark as night." 

Page 277. 

W When Victory, with her thrusting hand, 
Through blinding fogs, strove to consigu 
Her laurel to tbe patriot band ! 

" Every account confirms the opinion I 
at first entertained, — that our troops re- 
treated at the instant when victory was 
declaring herself in our favor. I can dis- 
cover no other cause for not improving 
this happy opportunity than the extreme 
haziness of the weather." — Washington to 
the President of Congress. 

Page 283. 

18 Lydia Darrach's faithful word. 

"Mrs. Darrach's Conduct. — I have very 
direct and certain evidence for saying that 



Mrs. Lydia Darrach, the wife of William 
Darrach (a teacher, dwelling in the house 
No. 177 South Second Street, corner of 
Little Dock Street), was the cause of 
i saving AVashington's army from great dis- 
I aster while it lay at "Whitemarsh in 1777. 
The case was this. The adjutant-general 
of the British army occupied a chamber 
in that house, and came there by night 
I to read the orders and plan of General 
j Howe's meditated attack. She overheard 
I them when she was expected to have been 
: asleep in bed ; and, making a pretext to go 
out to Frankford for flour for family use, 
! under a pass, she met with Colonel Craig 
(who afterwards shot himself) and commu- 
nicated the whole to him, who immediately 
rode off to General Washington to put him 
on his guard. The next night, about mid- 
night, the British army, in great force, 
marched silently out of Philadelphia. The 
whole affair terminated in what was called, 
I believe, the action of Edgehill, on the 
5th of December; and, on the 8th follow- 
ing, the British got back to tbe city, fa- 
tigued and disappointed. Lydia Darrach 
and her husband were Friends. She com- 
municated all the particulars (more than 
here expressed) to my friend Mrs. Hannah 
Haines, and others. Although she was a 
small and weakly woman, she walked the 
whole distance, going and coming, bring- 
ing with her — to save appearances — 
twenty-five pounds of flour, borne upon 
the arms all the way from Frankford. 
The adjutant-general afterwards came to 
her to inquire if it had been possible that 
any of her family could have been up to 
listen and convey intelligence, since the 
result had been so mysterious to him." — 
Watson' 8 Annals. 

A similar stratagem was planned to sur- 
prise Washington at Valley Forge; but, 
the fact being communicated in time, the 
enemy was foiled by the sudden and un- 
expected appearance of Lafayette and his 
corps on the banks of the Schuylkill. 

Page 287. 
19 The Mescbianza at Pbiladelphia. 

"The Mescbianza was chiefly a tilt and 
tournament, with other entertainments, as 
the term implies, and was given on Mon- 
day, the 18th of May, 1778, at Wharton's 
country-seat, in Southwark, by the officers 
of General Howe's army, to that officer on 
his quitting the command to return to 
England. 

"The company began to assemble at 
three or four o'clock, at Knight's Wharf, 
at the water's edge of Green Street, in the 



344 



KOTES. 



Northern Liberties ; and by half-past four 
o'clock in the afternoon the whole were 
embarked, in the pleasant month of May, 
in a ' grand regatta' of three divisions. 

"When arrived at the fort below the 
Swedes' Church, they formed a line 
through an avenue of grenadiers and 
light-horse in the rear. The company 
were thus conducted to a square lawn of 
one hundred and fifty yards on each side, 
and which was also lined with troops. 
This area, formed the ground for a tilt or 
tournament. On the front seat of each 
pavilion were placed seven of the princi- 
pal young ladies of the country, dressed 
in Turkish habits, and wearing in their 
turbans the articles which they intended 
to bestow on their several gallant knights. 
Soon the trumpets at a distance announced 
the approach of the seven white knights, 
habited in white and red silk and mounted 
on gray chargers richly caparisoned in 
similar colors. These were followed by their 
several esquires on foot. Decides these, 
there was a herald in his robe. These all 
made the circuit of the square, saluting 
the ladies as the}' passed, and then they 
ranged in line with their ladies; then 
their herald (Mr. Beaumont), after a flour- 
ish of trumpets, proclaimed their challenge 
in the name of ' the knights of the blended 
rose,' — declaring that the ladies of their 
order excel, in wit, beauty, and accom- 
plishments, those of the whole world, and 
they are ready to enter the lists against 
any knights who will deny the same, 
according to the laws of ancient chivalry. 

" At the third repetition of the chal- 
lenge, a sound of trumpets announced the 
entrance of another herald with four 
trumpeters dressed in black and orange. 
The two heralds held a parley, when the 
black herald proceeded to proclaim his de- 
fiance in the name of 'the knights of the 
burning mountain.' Then retiring, there 
soon after entered 'the black knights,' 
with their esquires, preceded by their 
herald, on whose tunic was represented 
a mountain sending forth flames, and the 
motto, ' I burn forever !' 

"These seven knights, like the former 
ones, rode round the lists and made their 
obeisance to the ladies, and then drew up, 
fionting the white knights; and, the chief 
of these having thrown down his gauntlet, 
the chief of the black knights directed his 
esquire to take it up. Then the knights 
received their lances from their esquires, 
fixed their shields on their left arms, and, 
making a general salute to each other by 
a movement of their lances, turned round 
to take their career, and, encountering in 



full gallop, shivered their spears. Tn the 
second and third encounter they discharged 
their pistols. In the fourth they fought 
with their swords. 

" From the garden they ascended a flight 
of steps covered with carpets, which led 
into a spacious hall, the panels of which 
were painted in imitation of Sienna mar- 
ble, inclosing festoons of white marble. 
In this hall and the adjoining apartments 
were prepared tea, lemonade, &c, to which 
the company seated themselves. At this 
time the knights came in, and on their 
knee received their favors from their re- 
spective ladies. From these apartments 
they- went up to a ball-room, decorated in 
a light, elegant style of painting and show- 
ing many festoons of flowers. The bril- 
liancy of the whole was heightened by 
eighty-five mirrors decked with rilbons 
and flowers, and in the intermediate spaces 
were thirty-four branches. On the same 
floor were four drawing-rooms, with side- 
boards of refreshments, decorated and 
lighted in the style of the ball-room. 
The ball was opened by the knights and 
their ladies; and the dances continued till 
ten o'clock, when the windows were thrown 
open, and a magnificent boucjuet of rockets 
began the fireworks. These were planned 
by Captain Montresor, the chief engineer, 
and consisted of twenty difierent displays, 
in great variety and beauty, and changing 
General Howe's arch into a variety of 
shapes and devices. At twelve o'clock 
(midnight) supper was announced, and 
large folding doors, before concealed, 
sprung open, and discovered a magnifi- 
cent saloon of two hundred and ten feet 
by forty feet, and twenty-two feet in 
height, with three alcoves on each side 
which served for sideboards. The sides 
were painted with vine-leaves and festoon- 
flowers, and fifty-six large pier-glasses, 
ornamented with green silk, artificial 
flowers, and ribbons. There were also 
one hundred branches trimmed, and eigh- 
teen lustres of twenty-four lights hung 
from the ceiling. Ihere were three hun- 
dred wax tapers on the supper- tubles, four 
hundred and thirty covers, and twelve 
hundred dishes. There were twenty-four 
black slaves in Oriental dresses, with sil- 
ver collars and bracelets. Toward the 
close of the banquet, the herald with his 
trumpeters entered and announced the 
king and royal family's health, with other 
toasts. Each toast was followed by a flour- 
ish of music. After the supper, the com- 
pany returned to the ball-room, and con- 
tinued to dance until four o'clock in the 
morning. 



NOTES. 



345 



" I omit to describe the two arches ; but 
they were greatly embellished : they had 
two fronts in the Tuscan order. The pedi- 
ment of one was adorned with naval tro- 
phies, and the other with military ones. 

'• Major Andre, who wrote a description 
of it (although his name is concealed), calls 
it ' the most splendid entertainment ever 
given by an army to its general.' The 
whole expense was borne by twenty-two 
field-officers. The managers were Sir John 
Wrotlesby, Colonel O'Hara, and Majors 
Gardiner and Montresor. This splendid 
pageant blazed out in one short night. 
Next day the enchantment was dissolved; 
and in exactly one month all these knights 
and the whole army chose to make their 
march from the city of Philadelphia." 
Watson. 
Page 293. 

20 There rose a tumult wild without. 



the festivities of the night of the Meschi- 
anza, below the city, McLane was busy 
with a stratagem to break them up. He 
had one hundred infantry, in four squads, 
supported by Clough's dragoons. At ten 
at night they had reached the abatis in 
front of their redoubts, extending from 
the Schuylkill to the Globe Mill. These 
divisions carried camp-kettles filled with 
combustibles, with which at the proper 
signal they tired the whole line of abatis. 
The British beat the long roll, and their 
alarm-guns were fired from river to river, 
and were answered from the Park, in 
South wark. The ladies, however, were so 
managed by the officers as to have taken 
the cannonade for anything but the fact, 
and therefore continued the sports of the 
night. But the officers in charge on the 
lines understood the nature of the assail- 
ants, and gave pursuit and assault. He 
retired to the hills an 1 fistnesses of the 
Wissahickon. After daylight the British 
horse were in full force to pursue him, 
and finally took his picket and ensign at 
Barren Hill. McLane was afterwards 
attacked, and swam his horse across the 
Schuylkill, when some of Morgan's rifle- 
men appeared to his protection. He then 
turned upon his pursuers, driving them in 
turn into their lines near the city." 

Watson. 

Page 301. 

21 Giving his daughter Berkley Hall 
And his blessing with the bro id estate. 

As some may not be aware of the baro- 
nial style in which certain of the early 



settlers of our country lived, and fearing 
that the description of " Berkley Hall" 
might be thought overdrawn, the author 
again avails himself of the invaluable 
" Annals'' of Watson to select a couple of 
passages : — 

"Tue Wharton Mansion, in Southwark, 
fronting the river, back from the present 
Navy- Yard, was a country-house of gran- 
deur in its day. It was of large dimen- 
sions, with its lawns and trees, and, as a 
superior house, was chosen by the British 
officers of Howe's army for the celebration 
of the Meschianza. Wilton, the place once 
of Joseph Turner, down in the Neck, was 
the nonpareil of its day. It was the fash- 
ionable resort for genteel strangers. Every 
possible attention was paid to embellish- 
ment, and the garden cultivation was su- 
perior. The grounds had ornamented 
clumps and ranges of trees. Many statues 
of fine marble (sold from a Spanish prize) 
were distributed through the grounds and 
avenues. The mansion-house and out- 
houses, still standing, show in some degree 
their former grandeur. The ceilings are 
high and covered with stucco-work, and 
the halls are large." 

" Ditches House. — This was one of the 
most venerable looking, antiquated houses 
of our city, built in 1758 for Parson 
Duche. the pastor of St. Peter's Church, 
as a gift from his father. It was taken 
down a few years ago. It was said to 
have been built after the pattern of one of 
the wings of Lambeth Palace. When first 
erected, it was considered quite out of 
town (corner of Third and Pine Streets), 
and for some time rested in lonely grandeur. 
It afterwards became the residence of Gov- 
ernor McKean; and, when we saw it as 
a boy, we derived from its contemplation 
conceptions of the state and dignity of a 
Governor which no subsequent structures 
could generate. It seemed the appropriate 
residence of some notable public man." 

Pack 302. 
22 Brave Percy, when his charger stood 
First on the field of Braudywine. 

" Among the gayest of the gay, as a vol- 
unteer in the suite of one of the British 
generals, — as tradition informs us, — was a 
sprightly and chivalrous descendant of the 
Percys. He was a noble and generous 
youth, and had volunteered on the present 
occasion as an amateur, to see how fields 
were won. As the young Percy came over 
the brow of the hill, he was observed sud- 
denly to curb in his impatient steed, and 
the gay smile upon his lively features, 



346 



NOTES. 



changing at first to gravity, soon became 
sad and pensive as he glanced his bright 
eye over the extensive rolling landscape, 
now rife with animation. The wide pros- 
pect of gentle hill and dale, with forest 
and farm-house, the bright waters of the 
Brandywine, just appearing in one little 
winding section, in a low and beautiful 
valley on the right, formed of itself a pic- 
turesque view for the lover of the simple 
garniture of nature; all combined to make 
up a scene which it would hardly be sup- 
posed would have damped the ardor or 
clouded with gloom the fine features of a 
young officer whose proud lip would at any 
other moment have curled with scorn and 
his eye kindled with indignation at the 
remotest intimation of a want of firmness 
in the hour of trial. Yet, with a subdued 
and half-saddened eye. the young Percy, 
who but a moment before was panting to 
play the hero in the contest, paused for a 
moment longer. Then, calling his servant 
to his side, and taking his diamond-studded 
repeater from his pocket, — ' Here,' said he, 
'take this and deliver it to my sister in 
Northumberland. I have seen this field 
and this landscape before, in a dream in 
England. Here I shall fall. And' — draw- 
ing a heavy purse of gold from his pocket 
— ' take this for yourself.' Saying this, he 



dashed forward with his fellows. The most 
obstinate fighting during the engagement 
took place near the centre, which rested 
upon the little stone meeting-house of the 
Quakers, and in the graveyard, walled on 
all sides by a thick stone mason- work, 
which, wifh the church, are yet standing 
as firmly as at the period of which we are 
writing. This enclosure was long and reso- 
lutely defended by the Americans: and it 
was near this place, about the middle of the 
action, that tlie noble young Percy fell, as 
he believed he had been doomed to do. The 
enclosure was at length scaled, and carried 
by the bayonet. The wounded were taken 
into the meeting-house, built by the peace- 
makers for the worship of the God of peace, 
though now the centre of the bloody 
strife ; and the dead were inhumed in one 
corner of the burying-ground in which 
they had many of them been slain. Just 
before our visit, a grave had been dug. and 
the remains of a British soldier disin- 
terred. A part of his shoes remained ; a 
few pieces of red cloth, a button likewise, 
marked '44th Regt.,' and a flattened bul- 
let. — probably the winged messenger of 
death to the wearer, — were also found ; 
both of which were given to us by the good 
man near by the meeting-house." 

Watson. 



THE END. 



LRBMr'26 



